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3 3433 08253388 






Tales of Indians, Chinese 
and Africans 




re/ // Oj 




Copyright, 1918, by 
































A drawing of a large Iroquois bark lodge made 
by Jesse Cornplanter, an Indian boy 36 

"In the big, long council house they had danced 
the bear dance" 42 

This Chinese woman is walking the streets try- 
ing to sell both of these girl babies. In times 
of famine they even trade them for poultry . . 60 

It is more comfortable simply to sit still, for her 
mother has already begun to bind her feet . . 67 

So that when she grows to be a lady she may 
have "lily feet" like these 67 

One of the "two honorable lady doctors" Dr. 
Mary Stone 77 

"As poor sick women and children lay between 
clean white sheets, they looked out on cheery 
white walls and pretty red doors" 86 

"Priests chanted prayers for her before the God- 
dess of Mercy" 98 

Spring Lotus and her "Big Sister." "She looked 
with her hunched back and her shrunken limbs 

no larger than a child of ten" 




The Cripples of the Ida Gracey Cripples' Home. 
Some of them "The Little Doctor" can make 
well, but she cannot give new feet to the two 
women on the left. A Red Cross nurse, a 
house mother, and a deaf-and-dumb teacher 
who teaches the cripples to embroider stand 
together in the top row 130 

The tall jungle grass shook its blades against 
their faces . 150 

"Caravans of black carriers from the forest 
passed daily along this path" 

The black boys built a pretty white church. . . 167 

He went on foot from one cluster of huts to 
another telling Nzambi's message of love. ... 177 

Senhor Bote guided two pairs of boys who took 
turns at running a heavy six-foot pit saw. . . 185 

"Almost everyone in the village had come to 
listen to the white man's stories except 
'Crime of Death' 5) . 202 



To the Boys and Girls Who 
Read These Stories 

WHAT I have written for you are 
not fairy stories or myths. They 
are stories of real people, some of whom are 
living to-day. Perhaps some time you may 
yourselves talk to Dr. Stone or Dr. Kahn, 
or to Happy Pearl, Spring Lotus, or Mr. 
and Mrs. Withey and their children. Watch 
the missionary magazines, for these may tell 
you more stories about them. You might 
write a letter to one of them some time. 

I have tried not to put anything into 
these stories which is not true. If I have 
made any mistakes, it has been because 
often it has been so difficult to find out 
just what was true. Though China is 
the land of my birth, I have never been 
in Kiukiang or Nanchang, and I have 
never been able to visit the land of the 
black man. Of course I could not have 

been living one hundred years ago when 



John Stewart sat in the council house of 
the Wyandots. 

The Indian stories were written after 
reading some very old books written by 
men who knew r John Stewart very well. 
There are a number of old books, too, 
about the Wyandots of Ohio. I have 
also talked with a man who has made 
Indian ways his life-long study. Nowhere, 
however, could I find out all the things 
I wished to know- . So while I was writing 
the stories for you, I had to imagine that I 
was watching John Stewart and the Indians, 
and I put down some things w r hich seemed 
to me must have been true. 

Before writing the stories about the 
Chinese babies, doctors, and cripples, I 
again read from books and a great many 
magazines, and I talked with people w r ho 
know Dr. Stone and Dr. Kami. Then, 
too, I had several talks with Dr. Stone's 
own sister, and I asked her a great many 
questions. After I had written the stories, 
she read them over and corrected mis- 
takes which she found I had made. Half 



a dozen missionaries from China have 
helped me in the same way. Two very 
close friends of Ida Gracey helped me 
with the story about her. 

Before wTiting the stories about Senhor 
Bote in Africa, I read all of Mr. \Vithey's 
own diaries notebooks in which he wrote 
down his experiences from day to day. 
When I had picked out of these diaries 
the stories which I thought you would 
like the best, and had written them over 
so that you could understand them, I 
sent what I had written to Mr. Withey. 
He read them all very carefully and showed 
me just how to change them so that they 
would all be true. 

So now I hope that you too will play 
that you are first in Ohio at the time 
your grandfathers were boys, that you 
will then go to China, and then to Africa; 
and I hope that you will like all these 
real heroes as well as I do. 
Your friend, 


Morsemere, New Jersey, May 31, 1918. 





ONE hundred years ago, when your 
great-grand-fathers were boys, there 
lived in Virginia a young Negro named 
John Stewart. For some years his work 
had been to take the cloth which women 
made on their spinning wheels at home 
and to dye it for them. But one day he 
started forth alone with his few belong- 
ings tied to a pole thrown over his shoulders 
and with all his savings in his pocket. 
Thus he tramped over the mountains from 
his old home in Virginia to make for him- 
self another home in the new Western 
town of Marietta, on the Ohio River. 
His slight body was nimble in its walking, 
his black eyes had a manly look, and his 
heart was glad in the thought of what he 
might do in this new town. 

As he walked along a shaded path 



through the wilderness, however, robbers 
pounced upon him and robbed him of all 
his money and left him lying in the path, 
helpless. When he came to himself, he 
felt miserable indeed, and no good Samar- 
itan came to his relief. 

"Here I am," he said to himself, "a 
penniless Negro and a stranger traveling 
to a strange town.' : 

Alas! the robbers had not only taken 
his money, they had also stolen the hope in 
his heart. His limbs moved slowly and 
the look in his black eyes became dull 
and gloomy. 

It took but a few days in the strange 
town to change this young colored man 
into a wretched beggar. A few odd jobs 
here and there he found to do, but these 
helped him but little, for he spent most 
of his nickels and dimes for whisky. 

"A drink will make me feel better,' 3 he 
would say to himself as he walked in the 
door of a rum shop. 

As the weeks passed, he came to drink 
often, and then more often still; until 



finally spells of drunkenness would come 
upon him frequently when he could neither 
walk straight nor talk straight, and his 
hands would tremble so badly that only 
with difficulty could he feed himself. 

John Stewart no longer found any joy 
in living. As he wandered one evening 
along the bank of the Ohio River, he 
thought he heard Satan speak to him and 
say, "Drown yourself in the river.' 1 He was 
almost ready to obey when he heard another 
voice say, "John Stewart! John Stewart!' 1 
He turned and looked all about him, but saw 
no one near, and he was afraid. 

Again, on another evening as he strayed 
gloomy and alone along a quiet street, he 
heard the sound of singing. As he ap- 
proached the house from which the music 
came he heard shouting and praying. He 
became curious and stepped to the door and 
was invited in. He found himself in the 
midst of a Methodist prayer meeting. He 
liked the meeting and yet he didn't like it. 
"When another evening came, however, he 
went again, and later yet again. 



The love of Jesus began to change him. 
He gave up his drinking of whisky. He 
rented a little shop of his own and became 
again a dyer of cloth. In the early morn- 
ings and in the evenings he would wander 
out alone hi the woods, and seating him- 
self on the moss beneath a tree, he would 
read his Bible and then he would kneel 
down and pray to God to help him to be 
a true man. 

One Sabbath evening as he was sitting 
thus alone in the woods he thought he 
saw an Indian bedecked in buckskin and 
feathers step toward him and he thought 
he heard him say. 'Thou shalt go to the 
Northwest into the forests of the red man 
and declare plainly the words of the liv- 
ing God. ?: Then he thought he saw an 
Indian squaw wrapped in her blanket 
standing beside the man, and he thought 
he heard her speak the same words: "Thou 
shalt go to the Northwest into the forests 
of the red man and declare plainly the 
words of the living God." As he stood 
wondering and gazing at his strange com- 



panions, the western sky seemed to light 
up with a strange radiance. 

On other evenings as he sat alone in 
the woods John Stewart again heard the 
voices first the voice of a man, then the 
voice of a woman, saying, "Thou shalt 
go to the Northwest into the forests of 
the red man and declare plainly the words 
of the living God." Sometimes he thought 
he heard them singing together in the 
sweetest tones. Sometimes, before he real- 
ized it, he found himself standing up and 
preaching as if the woods were full of 
Indians eager to hear his message. 

The memory of ;t the voices" in the 
woods disturbed John Stewart as he toiled 
at his trade. "A wild scheme it would be 
for me to be a preacher," he thought. 
"A preacher should have more education 
than I have." Then he would remember 
the days of his drinking and he would 
say, "Such a man as I can never be worthy 
to preach the words of the living God." 
Yet "the voices" would keep ringing in 

his ear: "Thou shalt go to the Northwest." 



He tried to forget them, but he could 

He spoke about "the voices" to his 
friends at the Methodist prayer meetings. 
"It was only a dream, John Stewart, 53 
they said, and they smiled to themselves 
as they pictured an ignorant Negro going 
forth alone to the wilds of the Northwest 
to teach the Indians. 

'They would only scalp you for all your 
pains," they said. "No one will give you 
money for such a foolish undertaking.' 2 

Still he was troubled. He could not 
forget :< the voices.' 2 He went to his best 
friend, the class leader, and asked his 

"Well, John," he said, "your impressions 
and your sense of duty are so peculiar that 
no one will be willing to give you money 
for such a dangerous enterprise. But if 
you really feel that it is your duty to go 
somewhere northwest and preach to the 
Indians, obey what you believe to be the 
command of God. You cannot rest your 

mind in any other way than by making the 



attempt at least and starting on your 

Then he and his friend prayed and while 
they were on their knees, John Stewart 
became sure of what he should do. 

First, he remained at his shop dyeing 
cloth until he had paid up all the debts 
he had made while he lived carelessly 
squandering his money on drink. Then 
he started forth toward the Northwest. 
None of his Methodist friends were there 
to bid him good-by, none but his best 
friend, the class leader. He started across 
the fields alone with his Bible in one 
pocket and his hymn book in the other. 
All his outfit he carried in a coarse hand- 
kerchief tied to the end of a pole that 
crossed his shoulders. In it he had put 
two shirts, two extra pairs of socks, and a 
small supply of bread and meat. 

Thus he tramped from town to town 
toward the Northwest to him a far-away 
region of primeval forests and savage red- 
skins, the Northwest with its lodges of 
bark and plain log cabins of lonely pale 



faces; a land of scalpings and wars between 
redskins and white skins. Thither John 
Stewart walked. 

At first he could follow the beaten roads. 
Ere long he found only the trails of the 
animals through the wild forests. At times 
he pushed his way through the tall grass 
of the prairies. As he journeyed, he 
watched the sun in the sky, and when he 
thought he was too far east, he would 
turn to the west, and when he thought he 
was too far west, he would turn to the east. 

Sometimes he found lodgings for the 
night in the cabin of a kind-hearted pioneer 
who gave him a fresh supply of bread 
and meat. Sometimes he slept on the 
brown leaves in the woods. With the 
wild turkeys, the owls, and the beavers for 
company, he would seat himself on a log 
and read his Bible and pray and sing. 
Thus John Stewart journeyed on day by 
day. He knew not whither he was going 
or how he would be cared for. He only 
knew that he was going northwest. 

Here and there at long distances when 



he found a log cabin, he would step to 
the door and tell his story. Something 
about his face and the way he spoke 
would tell the settlers that he was honest, 
and usually they w r ould invite him to 
share with them their corn meal mush 
and would give him a bed on the floor. 
Some tried to discourage him, for the 
pale faces of the West were not fond of 
the redskins. John Stewart listened to 
their warnings, but he also heard 'the 
voices," and he was not afraid. 

At last, having journeyed about one hun- 
dred miles, he came upon a settlement of 
Delaware Indians. It was in October and 
the red men were preparing to celebrate 
the gathering of the corn crop by a feast 
and a dance. The stranger was invited 
to watch. Dressed in their beads, feathers, 
and buckskins, the red men came. They 
gathered in a circle about a big fire in 
the woods and the stranger sat among 

First, they filled the air with their shrill 
cries. Then all the red braves began to 



dance. Wildly they leaped about near the 
stranger, sometimes brandishing their toma- 
hawks close by his head, as if to cleave his 
skull. Skillfully, however, they caused 
their weapons to miss, only now and then 
touching the hair on his head or grazing the 
skin of his face. Sometimes a big warrior 
chief adorned with many colored paints 
would point a big knife at the seated visitor 
and make a thrust at him as if to kill him, 
yet carefully missing his mark. 

At first the would-be missionary sat 
trembling. He thought that, after all, the 
predicted scalping would come. Then he 
remembered ''the voices" and his heart 
became strong. Soon he opened his hymn 
book and began reading quietly. When 
the noise of the dancing and shouting 
grew less, he began to sing. The sweet 
tones of his voice seemed to cast a spell 
over the redskins. All became quiet and 
stood about listening. 

When John Stewart had finished, one of 
the red men cried, "Sing more," and grunts 
of approval passed from every lip. 



So the stranger sang other songs. Then 
he asked if anyone there could speak 
English. An old brave offered himself as 
interpreter of John Stewart's words. 'The 
Great Spirit has sent me to teach you/ 3 
said the visitor, and he told them of the 
love of Jesus. 

That night as he slept in an Indian 
lodge, John Stewart felt that he had 
done his duty, and perhaps had found his 
work. The next morning, however, he 
thought he heard 'the voices" once more 
saying, "Go to the Northwest.'' 

So on and on northwest the lonely man 
tramped, through forests and across plains, 
wading through swamps and streams. The 
ground was his bed and the wild fruits 
of the forest were his food. On another 
hundred miles he tramped to the banks 
of the beautiful Sandusky River, to the 
lodges of the Wyandot braves. 

On the edge of the camp he found a 
white man's cabin, the home of Mr. Wil- 
liam Walker, the American agent for the 
tribe. "A runaway slave," thought Mr. 



Walker when he first saw John Stewart. 
But when he had heard the black man's 
story of his coining, he was more ready to 
trust him, and the honest look in Stewart's 
face won the heart of Walker's Indian wife, 
who was preparing the noonday meal. 

'There is another man, a Negro like 
yourself, named Jonathan Pointer, who be- 
longs to this settlement and he speaks 
English,'' said Mr. Walker. 'When as a 
boy he was working with his master in 
a cornfield, Indians killed his master and 
took him as a captive. Ever since that 
time Jonathan Pointer has been living as 
one of the Indians. He probably will be 
willing to be your interpreter. His lodge 
is eight miles northwest of here in a big 
hollow. There is no road, nor even a trail, 
leading to it, but you can find it if you 
keep to the northwest.' 1 

So again John Stewart trudged on alone. 
He found the lodge, but not a hearty 
welcome. "It is folly for you, a poor 
colored man, to attempt to turn these 
Indians from their old religion to a new 



one," said Jonathan Pointer. "Great and 
learned white men have been here before 
you, and they used all their power, but 
they could accomplish nothing. You can- 
not expect these Indians to listen to you.' 
But the man who had heard "the voices' 3 
was determined to try. 




THE following day Jonathan Pointer 
was preparing to attend an Indian 

"May I go with you?' 3 asked John 

"I cannot promise to protect you, yet 
I will not forbid your going, " Jonathan 
Pointer replied. 

So they rode together across the grassy 
plains to the feasting grounds. About a 
huge bonfire the red men sat with gay 
bands of feathers about their heads, and 
with faces painted with blue, red, and 
green pictures of snakes and other ani- 
mals. Some were sitting, some were stand- 
ing, some were lying at full length on the 
grass; others were walking about and 
throwing now and then bunches of corn or 
handsfull of beans into the blazing fire. 



The young missionary heard sounds 
strange to his ears; the jingling of heavy 
earrings and nose trinkets, the clanking of 
knives and tomahawks. Now and then a 
chief would blow a long flute. Then 
another would bring forth a harsh sound 
from an old turtle shell. But these noises 
were nothing compared to the bedlam that 
came when the real dance began, with the 
wild yells and the drumming. 

Through it all John Stewart sat wonder- 
ing, watching, and quietly praying. When 
a lull came in the celebration he stood up 
and began to sing. All about became 
silent. After ending his song, he began to 
speak. He would speak one sentence. 
Jonathan Pointer would then repeat it, but 
in the language of the red man. Then 
another sentence in English, and his in- 
terpreter would give it in the Indian lan- 
guage. He told them of the Great Spirit 
who created the heavens and put in them 
the sun, the moon, and the stars. He told 
them how this Great Spirit had sent his 
Son to show his children his great love. 



All the feathered and painted men about 
the fire listened in silence. 

When he had finished, Stewart said, 
"I have one request. If you feel friendly 
toward me, show it by shaking hands." 

A tall chief of the Bear clan spoke for 
all when he said: "It is right that we 
should show friendliness toward this 
stranger. It is the red man's custom." 

So one by one all these savage redskins 
shook hands with the black stranger. 

"Come to the lodge of Jonathan Pointer 
to-morrow evening and I will again sing 
for you and tell you more," said John 
Stewart as he bade them good-by. 

So through the next day the missionary 
lived in hope. At eventide, however, only 
one lonely Indian came across the hollow 
to the lodge an old woman wrapped in 
her blanket of deer skin. John Stewart 
was true to his promise. He sang and 
talked to this one old woman of the love 
of the Great Spirit. 

The following night, one more Indian 
dared to join the group to hear of the 



new religion. He was Big Tree, a tall, 
fine-looking old chief dressed in his deer- 
skin jacket, and leggings richly trimmed 
with beads. From his ears and nose hung 
silver ornaments and the feathers that 
crowned his head made him seem all the 
taller and straighter. He sat quietly listen- 
ing to all the words of the stranger who 
had traveled with his message over moun- 
tains and hills from the land of the rising 
sun. This story of love was new and 
strange to the old warrior. He felt so 
great a weight on his heart because of his 
wicked life that the very thought crushed 
his spirit. 

The next day he wandered into the 
woods alone and fell on his knees and 
prayed: "O Father, have pity on me, 
your child that you have kept until his 
legs and arms are stiff with pains, and 
his whole body is worn out. This load 
will throw me down and I shall never rise 
again. The trees for me never again will 
blossom; the corn never again will rustle 
in my ears, and I shall no more behold 



the harvest. O, take this load from my 
heart, so that I may walk forth again, 
and see the beauty of the Great Spirit 
in the stars." 

"While I was talking to the Great 
Spirit," Big Tree told the missionary after- 
ward, "he healed my heart, and made it 
new. He put a voice in my inside, just 
here," he said, pointing with his hand to 
his heart, "and this voice reached my ear 
and I heard it say, 'All thy sins are for- 
given thee.' My heart was emptied of its 
load and I felt light and happy as a child, 
and I could run like a deer in the chase." 

The third night after John Stewart 
came, those who wished to hear of the 
new religion gathered in the council house. 
This was a windowless log cabin with one 
open side and with the hard ground for a 
floor. This time almost a dozen redskins 
came to hear him. 

As the days and weeks passed, it became 
popular to hear the new preacher. The 
red men liked his singing, and some were 
deeply impressed by his message. Some 



spent so much time at meetings that they 
neglected to go as usual to hunt the deer 
and the beaver, or to tap the maple trees. 
This greatly displeased the white traders, 
who grew rich by buying these things of 
the Indians. They began to say ugly 
words about John Stewart. 

"John Stewart is but a runaway slave." 

"It is a disgrace to have a nigger preach- 
ing to you." 

"The white men would not have a black 
man preaching to them." 

"He has bewitched you and in the end 
will only do you harm." 

Even Jonathan Pointer while interpret- 
ing what Stewart had to say would now 
and then slyly add a few words of his own: 
"He says so, but I do not know whether 
it is true or not, nor do I care. I am only 
interpreting what he has said. You must 
not think that I care whether you believe 
or not." 

All the while John Stewart lived quietly 
among the Wyandots. He slept wrapped 
in an Indian blanket on the earthern floor 



of a bark lodge. He ate what they ate 
locusts seasoned with maple syrup and 
fried in bear's oil, or rabbit or jerked 
venison or whatever they had. He supped 
his soup out of the big wooden ladle that 
passed from lip to lip in the family circle. 
Without soap he washed his clothes in 
the Sandusky River. He went with his 
red brothers to hunt and trap animals for 
valuable furs. He talked with them of 
the love of the Great Spirit. He comforted 
those in trouble. In the council house he 
sang and prayed and told them of their 
wrongdoings, their whisky-drinking and 
their fighting. 

One by one and two by two many of 
these red men of the forest decided to 
follow Jesus and so began to change their 
ways of living. They gave up their drink- 
ing of whisky. They tried to be honest 
and to live at peace with one another. 
They even left their little lodges made 
of poles and bark for neat log cabins with 
glazed windows. In these cabins they 
built fireplaces with chimneys, and made 



furniture, chairs, tables, and bedsteads, 
many of them as good as those in the 
cabins of their white neighbors. 

The Methodists down by the Ohio River 
heard of the wonderful changes that were 
taking place among the Wyandots as the 
result of the coming of this unlearned 
black man, and they sent white mission- 
aries to help him. Sometimes these white 
men preached in the council house. 

Some of the Indian braves, however, 
were only made stronger in the religion 
of their fathers. They would not listen 
to the words of "the white man's Book," 
and they would not believe in the ' 'white 
man's way to heaven. " "The white man 
has not treated us fairly. He has de- 
ceived us. His book cannot be good," 
they said. These men also gathered some- 
times in the council house, and there told 
the red men's stories of the creation of 
the world, of giants and dwarfs and 
witches and of good and evil spirits. 

One Sunday morning a large party of 
these followers of the religion of the red 



man came to the meeting of the Christians 
at the council house. At their head was 
De-un-quot, the great chief of all the 
Wyandots. His head was decked with a 
band of beads and a crown of feathers. 
A nose jewel and earrings adorned his 
face and a chain of silver ornaments hung 
about his neck and bracelets about his 
arms and legs. 

Presently De-un-quot stepped before the 
circle that sat about the fire, and spoke a 
few words of greeting. Then striking fire 
with his flint, he lighted his pipe and sat 
down. Soon many curls of smoke went 
lazily up from many pipes about the fire 
as the Christians sang songs and one of the 
missionaries preached. Then De-un-quot 
again arose and spoke to his redskins: 

"My friends, this is a beautiful day and 
your faces look happy. I have listened to 
your preacher. He has said some things 
that are good, but they have nothing to do 
with us: we are Indians and belong to the 
red man's God. That book was made by 
the white man's God and suits him. They 



can read it. We cannot. What he has 
said will do for the white man, but it has 
nothing to do with us. 

"Once in the days of our grandfathers, 
many years ago, this white man's God 
came to this country and claimed us. But 
our God met him somewhere near the 
great mountains, and they disputed about 
the right to this country. At last they 
agreed to settle this question by trying 
their great power to remove a mountain. 
The white man's God got down on his 
knees, opened a big book and began to 
pray and to talk, but the mountain stood 
fast. The red man's God took his magic 
wand, and began to pow-wow and beat the 
turtle shell and the mountain trembled, 
and shook and stood by him. The white 
man's God became frightened and ran off, 
and we have not heard of him since, un- 
less he has sent these men to see what he 
can do.' : 

De-un-quot's followers looked pleased 
as their great chief spoke and every now 
and then they uttered their grunts of 



approval. "Tough gondee,' 5 "It is true,' 2 
they said. 

Again one of the missionaries arose and 
said: "Our grandfather is a great man. 
He is an able warrior, a great hunter, and 
a good chief in many things. In all this 
I am his son. But when it comes to matters 
of religion, he is my son and I am his 
father. He has told us a strange story. 
I would like to learn where he obtained it. 
He may have dreamed it or perhaps he 
has heard some drunken Indian tell it. 
But, my friends, the great chief is mistaken 
about his gods. If it requires a god for 
every color, there must be many gods. 
Jonathan Pointer and Stewart are black. 
I am white and you are red. Who made 
the black man? Where is his god? This 
Book tells you and me that there is but 
one God and that he made all things and 
all nations of the earth. God had made 
plants of many colors. Go to the plains 
and see their varied hues. So it is with 
men. He has given them all shades of 
color from black to white. " 



So the missionaries pleaded with those 
who still refused to follow the Book. 
Some cried aloud; some clapped their 
hands; some became very angry; some 
ran away. 

"I am the head of the nation/ 3 said 
De-un-quot, "and the head ought to be 
believed. This religion may go into every 
other lodge of the reservation, but into 
mine it shall never come.' : 

The great chief never changed his re- 
solve. Until he died he continued to 
follow what he believed to be the religion 
of the red man. Yet he could not compel 
his people to follow him. Upon his death 
his widow joined the Christians and others 
of his tribe became more bold and ceased 
to sacrifice to the spirits. 

It was not only in the council house 
that the missionaries and the Christians 
told of the new religion. They followed 
the red men on their hunts in the forests. 
There they talked to them of God. They 
lived with the red men in their sugar camps 
when they tapped the maple trees and 



made sugar. There they talked to them 
of God. 

One winter the missionaries with a few 
of the Christian chiefs decided to walk 
north through the paths in the forest to 
the camp of their brother red men, the 
Senecas. It was the time of the yearly 
mid-winter feast. For a whole week these 
red brothers had been feasting and dancing 
and sacrificing to the spirits to win their 
favor for another year. In the big long 
council house they had danced the bear 
dance, the false-face dance,f the dance of 
the beans, the buffalo dance, the pigeon 
dance, the fish dance, the great-feather 
dance, the pumpkin dance, and other 
dances. Morning, noon, and night they 
danced. None seemed to tire. In between 
dances some old warrior would tell the 
deeds of braves of long ago, and some 
would tell stories of the great turtle, or 
of the witch buffalo or of stone giants. 
Outside the council house big kettles of 
venison and pork and raccoon hung 
over crackling fires. About these ket- 





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ties the red men feasted from big wooden 

For five days the bodies of two white 
dogs hung from the top of a high pole 
that stood in the ground just outside the 
council house. They were the red men's 
gifts to the Great Spirit and to the spirits 
of the sun and the moon, to the spirits 
of the rivers and the brooks, to the spirits 
of the rain and of the thunder, to the 
spirits of the corn and of the maple tree 
and to other spirits. The red men loved 
their dogs, and white dogs were the most 
beautiful of all. They would give their 
best to the spirits. 

On the fifth dav of the festival these 


red men came with their faces and shoulders 
smeared with black and on their arms 
were painted pictures of snakes and of 
other animals. A big fire burned in the 
center of the assembly. Two men took 
down the dogs from the pole and gave them 
to their chief. He then carefully laid them 
on the fire and began chanting a long 



"Oh listen, you who dwell in the sky! 
You look down upon us and know that 

we are thy children. 
Oh now inhale the smoke; so listen to 

our words. 

Until the next great thanksgiving, 
Until then may the people continue in 


As he continued to pray, now and again 
he threw pieces of tobacco into the fire 
to add to the fragrance of the burning. 

On one of the last days of the great 
annual feast the Wyandot Christians visited 
the Senecas. It was Sunday morning, and 
about one hundred chiefs and braves were 
playing fiercely the Indian game of ball. 
The Wyandot Christians seated themselves 
on a log outside of the council house and 
waited for two hours listening to the terri- 
fying yells of these ball players. 

At last the playing ceased and the 
visitors were invited in. The red men 
seated themselves in a circle with the 
chief in the center. He lighted the pipe 



of peace and passed it to the visitors. A 
woman entered with a kettle of hominy 
and gave to each in the circle a ladlefull 
as she passed. Then the great chief asked 
the visitors to speak their message. Be- 
tween-the-Logs, a chief of the Bear clan, 
arose and said: 

"Brothers, we have long had a desire 
to see you and to speak with you. We 
thought that as our business was from the 
Great Spirit, we would come on his day, 
the day appointed as a day to worship 
him. We expected to find you at your 
homes or in some good employment on 
this day of rest; but we were disappointed, 
we found you playing ball." 

He then announced a hymn. As they 
sang many left the room. Then he knelt 
and began to pray. As he prayed some 
yelled and more left the room, and when 
he had finished there were but few remain- 
ing in the council house. Then Between- 
the-Logs began to speak. 

"Fathers and brothers, from you I came 
out, for my father was a Seneca. As 



children sometimes may find a valuable 
thing and bring it and show it to their 
parents that all may have the benefit of 
it, so I have found a most valuable 
treasure." As he spoke many stepped 
back into the house. He told them of the 
love of the Great Spirit and of Jesus. 

Some of the red faces lighted with gladness 
as they heard his words. Dark scowls set- 
tled on the brows of others. Heavy earrings 
clinked as they shook their heads and uttered 
ugly grunts. The big bark house was filled 
with the noise of mutterings. Then arose 
Chief Mononcue, and his earnest eyes flashed 
over the assembly. His clear commanding 
voice ordered silence and it was obeyed. 

"When you meet to worship the Great 
Spirit and to hear his word, shut up your 
mouths, and open your ears to hear what 
is said. You have been here several days 
and nights worshiping your Indian gods 
which have no existence except in your 
clouded minds. You have been burning 
your dogs for them to smell. What kind 
of gods are they that can be delighted with 



the smell of burnt dog? Do you suppose 
that the Great Spirit who spread out the 
heavens, who hung up the sun and the 
moon, and all the stars to make light, 
and spread out this vast world of land and 
water, and filled it \vith men and beasts, 
and everything that swims and flies, is 
pleased with the smell of your burnt dogs? 
I tell you to-day that his great eye is on 
your hearts, and not on your fires. Has 
your worshiping here these few days made 
you any better? Do you feel that you 
have gotten the victory over one evil? 
No! You have not taken the first step 
to do better which is to keep this day holy." 

He then spoke of Jesus and of his dying. 
He told of the awful consequences that 
would follow if they neglected God's love. 
He burst into tears. He pulled the hand- 
kerchief from his head and wiped the tears 
from his eyes. Many about the fire sat 
as if they had been turned to stone. Others 
wept quietly. Many of the women drew 
their blankets over their heads and wept. 

"Awful, awful day of the wicked!" said 



the thundering voice of this chief of the 
forest. "Your faces will look blacker with 
your shame and guilt than they did with 
your paint." 

So the message of the white man's re- 
ligion spread from lodge to lodge and from 
village to village. Sometimes the red man 
heard it gladly. Sometimes he would have 
nothing to do with it. 

Although John Stewart lived but six 
years after he first wandered into this 
valley of the Sandusky, he lived long 
enough to see a great change come to the 
Wyandots. He saw a neat church built 
and filled each Sunday morning with about 
two hundred Indians. He saw a large 
mission house put up where over fifty 
Indian boys and girls went to school. 
He saw the Christian boys plowing and 
planting, and later he saw them hoeing 
acres of growing corn and potatoes, cab- 
bages and other vegetables. He saw the 
girls learning to cook and to sew, to wash 
and to spin. As he walked here and there 
through the villages and from cabin to 



cabin in the country he found many more 
neat gardens and larger fields of beau- 
tiful corn than he saw when he first arrived. 
He lived to see the Wyandot reservation, 
as white men came to call that region, 
become one of the very finest Indian 
reservations in all the country. 

Those who worship in Methodist churches 
should not forget that a poor and ignorant 
Negro was the first Methodist who dared 
to go to the red men of the forest to tell 
them of the love of Jesus. John Stewart 
loved them as a brother for Jesus' sake, 
and this love changed these savage war- 
riors as the warm sunshine and the re- 
freshing showers bring the pink blossoms 
to the brown branches of the peach tree. 
Because of John Stewart's daring and his 
love, the Methodist churches in the United 
States formed themselves into a Mission- 
ary Society and during the one hundred 
years since then they have been sending 
missionaries to red men and black men, 
to brown men and yellow men scattered 
far and wide the world over. 







These Chinese words were painted 
in large gold characters on the 
door of a small gray brick church. 
Just across the street stood the 
open gate in the old stone wall 
that surrounded the city of Kiu- 
kiang. As long-queued Chinese 
crowded through this gate and 
down the narrow street, the great 
gold characters seemed to look 
straight at them. They said, 
"This is the Back Street Good 
News Hall," yet, strange as it 
may seem, only a few of the 
hundreds of Chinese who passed 
through that gate each day had yet heard 
the Good News the Chinese pastor of the 
little church wanted to tell them. They 
were afraid even to step inside the door, 



for they said: "'Tis the house of the fol- 
lowers of the 'foreign devils.' They have 
an evil magic, those 'foreign devils,' and 
whoever enters under that roof of tiles is 
made to forget his ancestors.' 1 

Back of the little chapel where the few 
faithful Christians met to sing and pray, 
was a small schoolroom, and back of the 
schoolroom was the cozy home of the 
Chinese pastor and his wife, Mr. and 
Mrs. Shih. 

Chinese women, carrying large baskets 
of clothes, passed by the little house as 
they walked down the hill to do their 
washing in the lake that lay a little far- 
ther on. 

"The angry spirits will some day fly 
through that door," they said, shaking 
their heads wisely, "and they will bring 
misfortune to Mr. and Mrs. Shih for 
daring to worship the God of the 'for- 
eign devils.' 

These Chinese women did not under- 
stand that for Mr. and Mrs. Shih there 
were no evil spirits. The little bedroom 



already made cheerful by its clean, white- 
washed walls became a glad and holy 
place. Lying at one side of the room 
behind the long grass-cloth curtains that 
hung about the bed, lay the mother and 
a new-born baby. The father, sitting on a 
stool at the bedside, was leaning over the 
face of his new daughter. 

"Mother-of-my-child," he said, lifting his 
eyes to those of his wife, "I am glad she 
is a girl. Perhaps we can now show our 
people that girls are as much worth while 
as boys. Let us this first day of her life 
give her to God." 

Standing by the bed, at the opening in 
the long curtains, he prayed. "Heavenly 
Father, we thank thee for this child whom 
thou hast given us to love. We give her 
back to thee. Through all her life use 
her to do whatever kind of work may 
please thee most. Amen." A smile of 
peaceful joy passed over the mother's face 
as her husband prayed. 

"Tsai-yu," she said, "she is a perfect 
babe. Let us call her by the name of the 



greatest woman of all the nations. Let us 
call her ' Mary.'" 

'That thought is good, Mother-of-my- 
child," answered the father, eagerly, "but 
let us also make her name a Chinese name 
so that she will not be jeered at by those 
who hate the foreigners' religion.' 1 After 
a moment's thought he added, "Mary 
sounds much like Mei-yu, and that means 
Beautiful Jewel; and is she not like a 
precious stone ?' ! 

"Mei-yu, Mei-yu, that shall be your 
name, O precious jewel from the hand of 
God,' 5 said the mother, gladly, as she 
looked at the sleeping face of the new- 
born babe. Fondly petting the wee soft 
toes she added, "and I promise God this 
day that these feet shall never be bound. 
They shall always be left as He has made 

News of the little newcomer spread up 
and down the narrow street. "Those 
Jesus people have a little baby girl," said 
one neighbor to another, ;i but, strange to 
say, they do not seem to care that she is 



a girl. She is now ten days old and they 
are having a feast for her just as if she 
were a boy/ 3 

On the other side of the old city wall, 
in one of thousands of little brick houses, 
in the great city of Kiukiang, lay another 
Chinese mother and at her side slept 
another new-born babe. The mother's face 
was turned to the wall and tears filled her 
eyes. A room full of noisy neighbor women 
stood about. "Another girl and four girls 
in the family already!" said one. 

"Let this new one be drowned at once/' 
said another. 

"Five baby girls in one family and no 
sons! The shame of it!" 

"The evil spirits are very angry with 
the woman. She is being punished for 
some great sin." 

Such words as these were being shrieked 
at the weeping mother by one after another 
in the room. And still more cross words 
came. "If you keep the babe you will 
never have a son. When you and your 



husband are dead, there will be no son to 
burn paper money at your graves or to 
bring your spirits food. You and Mr. 
Kahn will wander about the next world 
as beggars. !: 

: 'Let me drown her for you in a pail 
of water,' 3 said one. 

"Xo, no,' 3 pleaded the mother, suddenly 
turning over in her bed. "I cannot bear 
to have you do it." 

"Let me have her," cried another. 'You 
will never need to think of her again.' 1 
Turning to a woman at her side she whis- 
pered, : T11 bundle the thing off to the 
baby pond over by the city wall/' 

"Xo, no, leave her alone, 53 begged the 
frightened mother as she put her arms 
around the helpless child. "She is beau- 
tiful. She is warm and soft. She can 
cry. Leave her alone !" 

"But your husband says you have not 
rice enough for any more girls, and that 
tljr; gods will send you no sons if you 
keep her," insisted another. 

Call a fortune-teller in and let him say 


what shall be done." suggested the grand- 

All heads in the room nodded their 
approval and added a chorus of "Yes, 
yes, call the fortune-teller.' 

The following day the fortune-teller, an 
old blind man dressed in a faded blue 
gown and red jacket, entered the home 
leaning on the shoulders of a boy. Being 
carefully seated on a stool beside a small 
table in the midst of a curious crowd of 
men and women, he asked: "What was the 
day of the moon when the child was born? 
What was the exact hour?" Writing the 
dates in a book, he bowed his white head, 
touched a finger to his forehead and then 
to each cheek. He began to move his 
fingers about as if counting a sum in 
arithmetic all the while chanting in a low 
sing-song voice words which no one else in 

o ~ 

the room could understand. Finally lifting 
his head he solemnly announced: "The 


child must be sold to another family, who 
will raise her to be the wife of their son.' 

All heads in the room nodded em- 



phatically and all cried, "Yes, yes. Let 
the girl be sold!" 

There followed days of searching here and 
there up and down the narrow streets of 
the big city for a family who wished to 
buy a baby girl. Finally an agreement 
was made with the Wangs. They would 
give two dollars for her. 

Again the fortune-teller was called to 
the Kahn home. "Are the stars in favor 
of this deal?' 5 he was asked. 

Again the old blind fortune-teller asked 
the hour and date of the birth of the Kahn 
baby girl and the date of the birth of the 
boy who was to be the future husband. 
Again he touched his finger to his fore- 
head and to his cheeks, and again he moved 
his fingers about as if counting a sum, 
and again he chanted in a sing-song tone 
words no one else could understand. 

Then he solemnly pronounced the de- 
cree. "This match will never do. The 
baby girl has been born under the dog 
star and the boy has been born under 
the cat star. As the dog is stronger than 


By courtesy of World Outlook 

This Chinese woman is walking the streets trying to sell 
both of these girl babies. In times of famine they even^trade 
them for poultry 


the cat, so the wife would be stronger 
than the husband. Of course this must 
not be. As dogs and cats always fight 
so they would quarrel as husband and 
wife. It must not be.' : 

Once more there was distress in the 
Kahn household most of all in the heart 
of the mother. Must she, after all, drown 
her babe? She wept and tried to remember 
what awful sin she must have committed 
to make the gods so angry with her. 

Past many bends and turnings in the 
narrow streets, packed on all sides with 
little gray brick houses, away in another 
part of the big city, there stood in the 
midst of a grove of mulberry trees a two- 
storied house hidden from the street by a 
high stone wall. "One house is built on 
top of another," said some as they passed. 
'The evil spirits can easily fly in through 
those large windows.' 1 

:< It will serve those 'foreign devils' right," 
said others, "for they bewitch those who 
come to them." 



This two-storied house was the only 
girls' school in all the big city. It was 
also the home of Miss Gertrude Howe, the 
American missionary in charge. Seated 
with Miss Howe at a table in her study 
was a Chinese teacher, and an open book 
lay before each. Her large gray eyes were 
looking earnestly at the small slant eyes 
across the table from her, and her lips 
moved in an effort to speak the Chinese 
words just uttered by the Chinese teacher. 
Then for a moment the Chinese teacher 
forgot the lesson he was teaching the 
American woman. 

"Miss Howe," he said, abruptly, "neigh- 
bors of ours, the Kahns, have had their 
fifth baby girl. The husband does not 
wish to keep the child. They tried to 
sell her, but the fortune-teller predicted 
bad luck for the match. Mrs. Kahn is in 
despair. She is too kind-hearted to drown 
the babe. Will you not take the child, 
Miss Howe? Bring her to your own home 
.and teach her to be a Christian." 

A few minutes later two sedan chairs 



borne on the shoulders of men were waiting 
at the gate. The American woman and 
the Chinese teacher were hurried along the 
narrow streets, through noisy crowds of 
men and wheelbarrows and other sedan 
chairs, until they reached the house of the 

Not long after, the same sedan chairs 
were hurrying back to the two-storied 
house. Miss Howe carried in her arms a 
little bundle and out of the bundle peeped 
a sweet baby face. As Miss Howe carried 
her upstairs to her own room and laid her 
on her own bed, she said: 'You are now 
mine, dear child. I will care for you. 
I will feed you and clothe you as if you 
had always been mine. You shall learn 
that there are no evil spirits to fear, and 
that the heavenly Father loves little girls 
as well as little boys. Your name shall be 
Ida," and she pressed a kiss on the warau 
baby cheek. 




morning a number of years ago 
in a big Chinese city, a missionary 
and his wife sat in their rocking chairs 
reading Chinese books. Loud voices, the 
rumbling of wheelbarrows, the clatter of 
feet on the rough stones of the streets 
sounded in their ears continually from out- 
side the wall that surrounded their yard. 
These noises, however, did not disturb them 
as they read, for they had long since be- 
come accustomed to these city sounds. 
Then above the noise of the crowd, they 
suddenly heard a series of sharp screams, 
like the shrieks of a child. 

"What do these cries mean?" asked the 
w T ife. 

"I ana afraid that a Chinese woman is 
binding her daughter's feet,' 3 answered the 
husband. The cries continued, now at the 



top of a child's voice; then a moment's 
quiet, followed by a sudden outburst of 
quick screams, as if the pain were too 
great to bear. 

"I cannot sit here any longer and listen to 
that poor child," said the woman as she rose 
from her chair and started toward the door. 

With a heart quivering with pity, she 
made her way out of the gate in the wall 
and down the narrow, crooked street to- 
ward the crying child. Entering an open 
gate in another brick wall, she found her- 
self in a narrow court surrounded on all 
sides by low houses with dark tile roofs. 
A few men stood about talking and laugh- 
ing. Women sat here and there embroider- 
ing and chatting. No ear was turned or 
seemed to hear that distressing cry. The 
English visitor crossed the court, but stopped 
before a doorway- -too shocked to move 
when she saw the object of her search. 
A little girl who looked to be about five 
years old sat leaning back in her chair 
while her mother, firmly gripping one of 
her ankles with one hand, with the other 



was winding a long white bandage tightly 
around her foot, squeezing underneath all 
the four smaller toes and pressing the heel 
and great toe nearer together. The child's 
face was streaked with tears and she 
clutched her mother's arm, crying: "O, 
stop! stop! I shall die! I shall die with the 
pain! I cannot bear this bandaging any 
longer. O, mother, mother, unloose the 

The missionary stepped across the room 
and laid her hand lightly on the mother's 
shoulder. The startled woman dropped 
her child's foot and bandage, and turning 
around, she stared like an angry tiger at 
the intruder. 

"I have come,' 5 said the missionary in 
a gentle voice, 'to beg you to stop tor- 
turing your daughter. She is your own 
child. Look at her little face red with 
the pain, and listen to her crying. Do 
have pity on her and undo the binding.' 

The angry mother blazed at the in- 
truder. 'Who are you that you come to 
teach me how to treat my daughter? You 


It is more comfortable simply to sit still, for her mother has 
already begun to bind her feet 

By courtesy of World Outlook 

So that when she grows to be a lady she may have "lily feet" 

like these 


think that I do not love my child? You 
do not understand. This foot-binding is 
our evil fortune handed down to us by 
our ancestors; no one can free us from it. 
If I were to stop binding her feet now, 
when my daughter grew up, she would 
curse me. No decent man will marry a 
woman without 'lily feet.' Dare I listen 
to her screaming now and let my daughter 
grow up to be a slave? Must I live to see 
her always wearing old blue cotton dresses, 
walking the streets with big bare feet and 
with uncombed hair, a slave, despised, 
jeered at, beaten with a stick? Never! 
Never! Let her die first!' 3 

Then bending over toward the frightened 
face of the child, the mother looked straight 
into her tear-stained eyes and asked, 
"Daughter, do you really wish me not 
to bind your feet?' : 

The child's wet eyes stared helplessly at 
her mother's determined face, and her 
lips quivered as she shook her little head 
with so slight a shake that the visitor 
could scarcely see it move. 



"See!" shouted the mother. "If my child 
would only speak, she would say: 'Don't 
mind my screams. Go on and bind my 
feet tighter. Make them so small that no 
little girl in all the city can say that her 
feet are smaller than mine.' 

The missionary herself could scarce keep 
back the tears. Without a word she 
walked quietly out of the door, across 
the court, and slipped down the crooked, 
crowded street back to her own room. 

"It is hopeless!" she said as she fell 
into her rocking chair. "So the little girls 
of China have suffered for hundreds of 
years. O heavenly Father, when will the 
good news of thy love be told? When will 
the little girls of China be given a fair 
chance to be happy?" 

The Chinese pastor's wee baby Mei-yu 
grew until she became a little girl and had 
her eighth birthday. Over in the two- 
storied house among the mulberry trees, 
Miss Gertrude Howe was sitting at the 
teacher's table before the rows of chil- 



dren's desks. Mei-yu, dressed in a pretty 
flowered cotton jacket and blue trousers, 
stood beside the desk with her father and 

"We have brought our little girl to you," 
said the father. "We want you to make a 
doctor of her." For a moment Miss 
Howe's clear gray eyes stared in surprise 
at the fine face of the man. "I have 
watched your American doctors,' 3 he con- 
tinued. "I see how much good they are 
doing our people. But we feel that a 
Chinese woman doctor might do many 
things for the women of China which a 
foreigner could not do." 

"Very well." answered Miss Howe with 
enthusiasm. "Bring Mei-yu to school to- 
morrow and leave her here. We will then 
see what we can do.' : 

So it came about that Mei-yu began 
going to the American school for Chinese 
girls that stood behind a wall in the midst 
of a grove of mulberry trees. The school 
was beyond many bends and turnings in 
the narrow streets in another part of the 



city from the pastor's home back of the 
Good News Hall. Yet Mei-yu walked all 
the way morning and evening with one 
of her parents or with some other grown- 
up. Dressed in her bright-colored jacket 
and blue trousers, like other well dressed 
Chinese girls, she tripped along spryly over 
the cobble-stones of the narrow streets. 
"Just like a bov!" men would sneeringlv 

<- CJ f 

say as they watched her pass. Her lithe 
little body, straight as an arrow, glided 
bv and her black eves shone with glad- 

t C/ <_J 


But now and again she would meet some 
other little girl, clinging to the arm of a 
servant woman, and hobbling slowly along 
on little stumps of feet squeezed into tiny 
embroidered slippers. Proud of her own 
awkward tiny steps, the Chinese girl would 
look down at Mei-yu's large shoes and 
taunt her, saying, "See the salt junks go 
by," meaning by salt junks what we would 
mean by river flatboats or barges. 

Again another morning, some fretful, 
hobbling child, as she met the sprightly 



Mei-yu, would cry, "Ah! ah! you'll be fit 
to follow the buffaloes in the fields with 
those big feet of yours/ 

Again one morning as Mei-yu walked 
along happily to school, she met another 
girl trudcrins lanielv along, leaning on the 

<J ^_ v_ i ^_ O 

arm of a servant. The other girl stopped 
short and. stretching her hands out straight 
on either side, she shouted, "You shall 
not pass until you kneel down here on 
these stones at my feet." 

I will not kneel." answered Mei-yu. 
My feet are as beautiful as yours. It is 
right that girls should walk as boys. Our 
feet should be left to grow as the Creator 
made them." 

'You must kneel before me," answered 
the haughty girl. "To bind the feet is 
the custom handed down to us bv our 

ancestors. TVe dishonor them if we do not 
follow their custom. 

Neither girl would yield. Their faces 
reddened. They stood stiffly facing each 
other, each determined to win. What 
might have happened no one knows had 





not the two women with them parted the 
two girls, and made them move on. 

Sometimes when school was over for 
the day and Mei-yu stepped inside the 
door of her little home back of the Good 
News Hall, she would throw herself into 
her mother's arms and cry, "I wish I did 
not need to walk to school. They are 
always taunting me. Is it true that there 
is not another respectable girl in the city 
whose feet are not bound? I am so tired 
of hearing the mean names they call me.' : 

'Try to bear it all patiently for Jesus' 
sake," said Mrs. Shih to her daughter. 
"It matters not if sometimes you cry in 
your mother's arms; but on the street walk 
along like a brave girl. Act as though 
you did not hear.' ! 

Sometimes when Mei-yu was at school, 
the neighbor women would step into the 
Shih home and chat awhile with Mrs. Shih. 
"You are very foolish not to bind Mei-yu's 
feet," they would say. "You will never find 
a man to marry her.' : 





It matters not," answered Mrs. Shih. 
She will live to be more useful than your 
bound-footed daughters. She is going to 
school so that some day she may be a 
doctor/ 3 

"A woman doctor!" they answered in 
surprise. "Who ever heard of a woman 
doctor ! Your Jesus religion certainly makes 
you very queer." 

One Sunday morning all the girls of the 
school among the mulberry trees gathered 
in the little chapel for morning prayers. 
They stumped into the room on their tiny 
stubs of feet, some leaning on canes, others 
holding the arms of grown-up women. 
All the little bodies moved as if walking 
on stilts, except those of two bright-eyed 
girls Ida Kahn and Mei-yu Shih. (The 
Chinese would say Shih Mei-yu.) Straight 
as two arrows they walked, light and free. 
No pains shot through their well-formed 
feet that stood in sensible shoes. 

Seating themselves on long benches, the 
girls faced the plain wooden pulpit behind 



which stood Mr. Shih. The Chinese pastor 
opened a Bible filled with strange Chinese 
characters and began to read. In the midst 
of his reading, a sharp quick cry burst 
from a pair of lips and a little girl buried 
her face in her hands as she shook with 
crying. A few T more verses were read by 
the man in the pulpit, when another scream 
disturbed the service and another suffering 
child dropped herself on the lap of the 
woman seated beside her. 'My bandage 
will kill me. I cannot stand it any longer, ' : 
she half whispered and half cried. The 
kind-hearted woman beside her gently re- 
moved her shoe and loosened a wee bit the 
bandage that bound her aching foot, while 
Miss Howe stepped quietly around and 
seated herself beside the other sobbing 
child. As the pastor told of the loving 
heavenly Father the little girl lay trembling 
and sobbing in Miss Howe's arms. 

Ida Kahn and Shih Mei-yu, sitting to- 
gether on a bench behind, watched the 
weeping girls and listened to their muffled 
sobs. Tears came to their eyes, too; but 



it was not for themselves that they suffered. 
Ida Kahn and Shih Mei-yu thought: "How 
thankful we are that our feet have not 
been bound. Jeers and taunts and mean 
names are nothing, if only we can help 
to bring the time when no little girls in all 
China will have to suffer like this." 




YEAR after year Ida Kahn and Shih 
Mei-yu studied faithfully in the Mul- 
berry School. They worked hard over 
arithmetic, geography, and history. They 
read books in Chinese and they learned 
to talk easily in English. Then their great 
dream came true. They sailed across the 
wide waters to America. Shih Mei-yu 
was given an English name of similar mean- 
ing to her Chinese name. She was called 
Mary Stone. The two Chinese women 
went to a medical college. For four years 
they studied about the human body and 
how to make it well when it is sick. When 
they returned across the Pacific Ocean, 
they were called Dr. Kahn and Dr. Stone. 
The day of their homecoming has never 
been forgotten in Kiukiang. A large crowd 
of long-queued Chinese, some dressed in 


( ourtisy 01 the Vv orld Outlook 
One of the "two honorable lady doctors" -Dr. Mary Stone 


their silks, others wearing their old blue 
cotton smocks, filled the wide street, or 
"bund, 52 that led along the embankment at 
the side of the great Yang-tse River. A 
steamer slowly pushed upstream and was 
moored to the bank. Thousands of fire- 
crackers banged their welcome to two 
Chinese women as they stepped ashore, 
and many old friends greeted them with 
hearty Chinese handshakings. 

Entering two sedan chairs which were 
waiting for them, they became part of a 
procession of chairs that were carried along 
the "bund." Firecrackers continued to 
bang and the noise attracted even greater 
crowds. Long-queued Chinese pushed and 
jammed against one another in order to 
get a glimpse of these women doctors. 
"Ah, these women are receiving more 
honor than was shown even to our com- 
mander when he arrived," some said. 

As the procession of chairs made its way 
slowly up the "bund," Chinese would press 
closely to the chair bearers and would ques- 
tion them. "Are these Chinese women?' 1 



"Is it true that these women have been 
studying four years in a foreign land?' 3 

"In what country were they?' : 
"Can they really heal the sick?' 2 
"Will they live in Kiukiang?" There 
were vigorous noddings of heads all about 
and a chorus of "Good! Good!" came 
from all sides. Every face in that blue- 
robed crowd looked pleased. Many hun- 
dreds followed the women through the gate 
in the great city wall, and up the narrow 
streets even to the door of the school 
among the mulberry trees. There a few 
thousand extra firecrackers were set off as 
the two Chinese women doctors stepped 
inside the door of their old school home. 

It was but two days after their arrival 
that they were first called to help a sick 
woman. A Chinese gentleman rattled the 
knocker on their door and asked for the 
women doctors. "My wife has been very 
ill for over a week," he said. "The Chinese 
doctor is unable to help her. Will you 
not hurry to her and do what you can for 



Soon the two doctors were tucked away 
in sedan chairs and the Chinese runners 
carried them off on their shoulders through 
alley ways and crowded streets, turning 
and winding here and there through rows 
of thickly packed Chinese houses. At last 
the two chairs were lowered before a gate 
in a brick wall. They were led through a 
court into a neatly furnished reception 
hall, already filled with a goodly number 
of women. A grandmother and an aunt 
welcomed them pleasantly. "We are Lighly 
honored by your coming,' 2 they said. 
"First, rest yourselves with a little tea." 

So sitting each before a pretty black 
table, the two doctors sipped tea while 
they were told of the sick wife. 

'We gave our Chinese doctor many cash 
to make her well," it was said, "but he has 
failed. At last he admitted that he could 
do nothing. Tut her into the hands of 
the two women doctors who have just 
arrived in Kiukiang; they have traveled 
over mountains and seas to study these 
affairs/ the Chinese doctor told us. Now, 



promise that you will cure her and we will 
reward you well." 

"We cannot make such a promise," said 
Dr. Kahn. 

"What! not promise to cure her? Why, 
then, did you come? Did you not study 
all those years in a foreign land?' And 
to one another they said, "She is not so 
learned as we supposed." 

"No," repeated Dr. Stone. "We cannot 
promise to heal her. Let us first see her 
and let us learn what sickness she has. 
Then we will do our very best for her." 

"No!" said the women of the house- 
hold, "we cannot allow you to see the sick 
woman unless you first promise to heal 

"Very well," said the two doctors, "we 
will have to leave," and they started for 
the door. 

"No, no, please do not leave us," cried 
several women as they fell on their knees 
before the doctors. "Please do not leave 
us. W^e are helpless without you. Do 
the best you can." 



So Dr. Kahn and Dr. Stone entered the 
sick room. Through the opening in the 
curtains about the sick bed, they saw a 
face thin and drawn and weary with pain. 
For hours the two doctors worked over the 
suffering woman. Even though their in- 
struments had not yet arrived from Amer- 
ica, they performed as best they could a 
kind of operation on the woman, and they 
did it successfully. When they bade her 
good-by, a quiet grateful face looked up 
to them and thanked them. 

Three days later a messenger from the 
home of the healed woman again rattled 
the knocker on the door of the house 
among the mulberry trees. He left two 
long thin red envelopes addressed to the 
two doctors. When the women opened the 
envelopes, they found two long strips of 
red paper bearing black Chinese charac- 
ters. They were none other than invita- 
tions inviting the two doctors to a feast 
to be given in their honor. 

So at the appointed hour at the home, 
where a few days before the mother seemed 



to be dying, Dr. Kahn and Dr. Stone sat 
in the seats of honor at a large square 
table. Dish after dish filled with the most 
tempting foods was laid before them 
first watermelon and lotus seeds, candied 
oranges and cumquats, nuts, and cakes; 
then roast ducks, chickens, and pigeons, 
bamboo sprouts, and rice; then birds' nest 
soup and tea. All the while as they sat, 
the guests spoke words of praise of the 
doctors. They asked questions about the 
wonderful land of the foreigners where such 
skill was taught. 

When the feasting was over, the grand- 
mother stepped into the room carrying 
on her arm a pile of red silk cloth. Stepping 
up to Dr. Kahn and bowing before her, 
she wound about her long strips of this 
red silk. Turning to Dr. Stone, she wound 
her about also with like strips of red silk. 
" 'Tis thus we would honor the w^omen 
who have cured our sick one," she said. 
Then she handed them gifts, saying, ' 'These 
speak our very great gratitude to these 
honorable women. 53 



When the party was ended, a long line 
of gayly decorated sedan chairs moved 
down the street from the house of feast- 
ing. All the family were escorting the 
honorable ladies to their home some in 
sedan chairs, others walking in line behind. 
All the way along, firecrackers were set off 
and voices shouted the praises of the two 
wonderful doctors. 

So it was that the news spread from 
mouth to mouth and from house to house 
from one end of the city of Kiukiang to 
the other. 

'These two Chinese women doctors who 
studied in a foreign land and who follow 
the Jesus religion- -they have learned great 
skill. They can really heal our sick.' ; 

So the sick and the lame and the blind 
were brought to the door of the doctors' 
home. So many came that an old Chinese 
house had to be purchased for use as a 
little hospital. The doctors had it cleaned; 
they placed in it a new floor of wood; they 
built into the walls several windows; they 
whitewashed the walls and ceilings. In 



it they placed six plain wooden cots. There 
they treated patients who came to them 
from day to day. 

But it was not many months until those 
six beds were far too few. Many came 
sick with fevers or having contagious dis- 
eases, or with sore or blind eyes, with 
broken bones or with great festering sores. 
Some had to be turned away because there 
was no room in the little Chinese house. 
A few good friends across the wide waters 
in America heard how these two doctors 
were having to refuse to take care of sick 
people because there were no beds in which 
to put them. So it came about that they 
raised a sum of money and a big square 
piece of land was bought and a wall was 
built around it. Large piles of gray bricks 
and white stones and long sticks of timber 
were purchased. Chinese carpenters and 
masons after months of toil changed these 
into a beautiful two-storied gray brick 
building with a dark tiled roof a hospital 
for women and children the only place of 
its kind for hundreds of miles around, and 



the only hospital within reach of millions 
of Chinese women and children. 

Chinese passing by the gate in the out- 
side stone w r all would often stand and gaze 
in wonder at the beautiful sight before 
them the white gravel path leading to 
the long gray-and-white building crowned 
with its dark tile roof. On either side of 
the path, masses of red, yellow, and white 
chrysanthemum blossoms seemed like hun- 
dreds of pretty fairies inviting them to 
come in. Then, too, the Chinese felt the 
roominess of this heavenly place as their 
eyes glanced from one side to the other 
of the wide green lawn, dotted here and 
there with banana, orange, myrtle, lime 
and camphor trees and occasionally a hardy 
pine. To the right, as strangers peered 
through the gate, they could see a smaller 
brick house with another dark tile roof, 
and it did not take them long to learn that 
there the blessed doctors lived. 

Inside the big hospital were small rooms 
and large rooms. In some of these were 
long rows of white iron beds spread with 



clean white counterpanes. As poor sick 
women and children lay between clean 
white sheets, they looked out on cheery 
white walls and pretty red doors. Gentle 
Chinese nurses dressed in blue dresses 
walked quietly about from bed to bed, 
bringing them food and medicine and 
speaking words of kindness. 

Sometimes women of wealth were car- 
ried to the gate in richly decorated sedan 
chairs to see the doctors. Sometimes poor 
workmen garbed in their soiled blue cotton 
would bring their wives on wheelbarrows 
to the porch of the hospital. Sometimes 
fathers would carry their little boys on 
their shoulders. Sometimes even mothers 
carrying their little ones on their backs 
would trudge up the white path on tiny 
bound feet. 

As their eyes would first catch sight of 
the beautiful scene, the gray, the red, the 
green, and the yellow, many would exclaim, 
"Ah! this must be heaven! We have 
never seen such beauty before.' 2 

Sometimes a smile would break over a 






0) ~ 









care-worn face and a sick woman would 
say, "Evil spirits cannot live here in this 
loveliness. I felt them loosen their hold 
on me the moment I was wheeled inside 
the gate. Now my heart is light.'' 




FU CHEN, or Happy Pearl, was the 
twelve-year-old daughter of Mr. and 
Mrs. Tseo, who lived about one hundred 
miles south of the city of Kiukiang. Among 
all the Chinese girls who lived in the big 
beautiful city of Nanchang, there were very 
few who lived in more beautiful homes than 
Happy Pearl. Instead of the yard being 
about the house, the house was built about 
the yard, or court, and such a beautiful 
court it was, too, with its bright colored 
chrysanthemums, its beds of roses, its mag- 
nolia trees, and its ponds of twinkling gold 

In this very lovely garden Happy Pearl 
played, though really very little playing 
Happy Pearl could do. A look at her tiny 
feet squeezed inside tiny pink slippers 

would have told you why. Such wee 



pinched feet found it hard to carry about 
a big twelve-year-old body; and, of course, 
they could not run and jump. 

Day and night, week after week and 
year after year, for six long years, Happy 
Pearl's little feet had been held bound 
tightly with long white bandages so that 
they could not grow. Many a night she 
had cried herself to sleep because of the 
pain. Many a day she had spent most of 
her time sitting on the edge of her bed or 
on a bench in the garden letting her feet 
hang down, for every step she took would 
make the tears come. Now that she was 
twelve years old, she could limp about with 
but little pain, for the bound stumps of 
feet had lost most of their power to feel; 
yet she could not run and jump and play. 

Happy Pearl, however, had many things 
to enjoy that most Chinese girls do not 
have. She had pretty carved tables and 
chairs in her home. Pairs of beautiful 
vases stood about on tables and shelves. 
Her house had many rooms. Happy Pearl 
slept in a big bed with delicately carved 



wood work and beautiful silk curtains hang- 
ing about it. 

Rich as her father was, however, Happy 
Pearl did not go to school. 'You might 
as well try to teach our buffaloes to read 
as to send our daughters to school," said 
Chinese parents. Mr. Tseo, however, had 
once gone to a big school for boys in 
another city and had learned that in 
America and Great Britain little girls 
learn to read as well as boys. So Happy 
Pearl, unlike all the other girls whom she 
knew, was taught to read. Each day a 
Chinese teacher came to her home and 
Happy Pearl had an hour or two of school 
all by herself. 

So the weeks passed, until one day Happy 
Pearl's mother became very sick. Her 
father was away from home. A Chinese 
doctor was called, and he left her one 
hundred pills to take. However, she only 
grew worse. Another doctor was called. 
He gave her a quart of medicine. Yet 
Happy Pearl's mother grew no better. 

'That is not your mother," the gray- 



haired grandmother said one day to Happy 
Pearl. "An evil spirit has entered her body 
and driven your mother's spirit away. 
We must shut her up in a room alone. 
We must keep away from her. That evil 
spirit may hurt us. We must pray to the 
gods and to the spirits of our ancestors. 
We must bring them gifts. Perhaps we 
may win their favor and they will drive 
away the evil spirit from her." 

So Happy Pearl and her gray-haired 
grandmother took tall red candles and 
heavy incense sticks and stood them on 
shelves before rows of carved wooden 
tablets and idols in the family hall. "In 
these wooden tablets live the spirits of 
our grandfathers and our great-grand- 
fathers and our great-great-grandfathers. 
Some one of them may be angry w r ith us," 
they said to themselves. So Happy Pearl 
and her gray -haired grandmother knelt be- 
fore these ancestral tablets, bending and 
knocking their heads on the floor and 
praying the spirits not to be angry with 
them. All night and all day Happy Pearl 



kept the candles and the incense sticks 
burning before these tablets to remind the 
spirits of their prayers, yet Happy Pearl's 
mother only grew worse. 

Then they went to a temple that stood 
by the roadside not far away where upon 
a shelf stood a row of idols. They placed 
before them cups of wine, bowls of rice, 
and bits of sweet meats. "Accept our 
gifts, O gods,' 3 they prayed, as they knelt 
before the idols one by one. "Be no 
longer angry with us, and drive away the 
evil spirit from this mother.' 

To other temples that stood further along 
by the roadside they went. To other idols 
they offered gifts and to them they prayed, 
yet Happy Pearl's mother only grew worse. 

Then they called priests to come to their 
home. "The priests have more power with 
the gods than we," they thought. "Per- 
haps they can drive away the evil spirit 
from our mother." 

So the priests came with their long, 
gray gowns and their solemn faces. They 
entered the large family hall where on 



shelves on one side of the room stood 
ancestral tablets and here and there a 
family idol. After accepting a large sum 
of money, the priests began. One stood at 
one side of the room crashing his cymbals 
together as loudly as he could, while the 
other knelt before one tablet after another 
and before one idol after another, knocking 
his head each time on the floor. Through 
it all both priests recited long prayers in 
loud monotonous tones. 'The more noise 
we can make, the more surely we will 
frighten away the evil spirit," they thought. 
Yet Happy Pearl's mother only grew worse. 
The poor old grandmother was in despair. 
As she sat in her little room beside the 
window, she moaned in her sorrow: "O, 
what more can we do to drive away the 
anger of the gods! My grandson has been 
following some of the foreigner's ways and 
the gods are showering their anger upon 
us." Then she thought of the steamboat 
that plied up and down the Poyang Lake 
that lay beside their city. "That big 
engine is disturbing the wind and water 



spirits and the spirit of the great dragon 
that lives under the earth, and my son 
rides on that boat/ 3 she said to herself. 
The thin wrinkled hands trembled as the 
grandmother thought of these things and 
with frightened eyes she stared out of the 

An old woman servant standing by 
saw her distress and overheard the moan- 
ing. "O, venerable lady,' 3 she said, "I 
know a way to satisfy the gods. 5 ' 

"What more can you suggest?" asked the 
old lady in surprise. 

"Let the daughter of the household go 
on foot to the famous temple of the loving 
Goddess of Mercy, that stands in Filial 
Piety Square. There by means of offer- 
ings and prayers, let her beg the goddess 
to forgive our sins. Let her ask the great 
mother with a thousand arms to plead 
for us to the other gods that they may 
drive away the evil spirit from the mistress.' 1 

During all this time Happy Pearl was 
sitting just outside the open door of the 
room. As she listened to the words of the 



old servant, her face grew white and her 
heart well-nigh stopped beating. "Must I 
walk through the streets of the city! I, the 
daughter of an official of Nanchang!" she 
said to herself. "I have never left the 
house, except in a sedan chair, in my life. 
Must I bring disgrace to the family of 
Tseo and to myself? Shall the ragged 
beggars and the workmen of the crowded 
streets look into my face? Never!" 

Then, remembering her mother, her angry 
body became limp and she began to cry. 
"What if it might make my mother well?' : 
she thought. "What would I not do for 
my mother?' 3 

As Happy Pearl struggled with herself, 
her grandmother and servant continued 
talking and Happy Pearl overheard these 
words: "Very well, we can at least try it." 

That night as the unhappy girl lay on 
her beautiful bed she tossed about from 
one side to the other. She could not sleep. 
"How can I ever live through to-morrow?" 
she kept crying. 

Early the next morning her servant pre- 


pared her for the journey. Her glossy 
black hair was unbraided and allowed to 
hang in disorder over her shoulders. Her 
bright dress was replaced by an old blue 
cotton gown put on wrong side out. She 
looked like a poor, neglected slave girl. 
Then she was led by two servants out of 
the door of her home, while more servants 
followed carrying baskets full of candles, 
incense sticks, paper money and many 
'"cash" for the priests. 

Just three steps Happy Pearl took on 
her little bound feet, then down on the 
ground she knelt, and knocked her head 
three times on the dirty stones of the 
street. She arose, walked three more steps, 
then down she knelt, knocked her head 
three times on the rough stones. Slowly 
thus she made her way along toward the 
great temple: three steps, then kneeling, 
knocking her head on the stones, then 
rising, three steps more, and so on and on. 
Xoisy crowds pushed by her in the narrow 
streets. Xow and again some laborer or 
teacher stopped to stare at her. Most of 



those who passed paid little heed to Happy 

" 'Tis but another pilgrim to the temple 
of the Goddess of Mercy," they thought as 
they moved along. 

Still Happy Pearl continued taking slowly 
her three steps, kneeling, knocking her 
head on the stones of the streets and 
rising. To her it seemed hours since she 
had left her home. Sharp pains shot 
through her cramped feet. Her back felt 
as though it would break and her poor 
head began to whirl. At last her strength 
seemed gone. She could not rise. Then 
the two servants lifted her and dragged 
her along. They forced her to kneel. 
They knocked her head for her on the 
hard stones. 

When finally the temple was reached, 
the young pilgrim fell in a faint before the 
door. By pinching and pricking the 
servants revived her. Mustering all her 
strength, she entered the temple. Then 
again she kneeled and touched her head 
to the floor before the idol of the Goddess 



of Mercy, the idol with a thousand arms. 
As she kneeled thus on the floor of the 
idol room, priests standing about chanted 
prayers for her, while other priests lighted 
incense sticks and candles and placed them 
before the Goddess of Mercy. They also 
laid before the idol the paper money and 
the real silver pieces. At last her duty 
was done. The weary girl was carried 
home by servants in a closed sedan chair. 
Safe once more in her own home she threw 
herself on her bed and cried herself to 
sleep. Yet Happy Pearl's mother only 
grew worse. 

Then word was sent to Mr. Tseo: "Your 
wife is very ill. Send help at once.' : Now 
Mr. Tseo had little faith in the ideas of 
his mother. When he heard of his wife's 
sickness, he thought at once of two Chinese 
women doctors he had once met in Kiu- 
kiang. It did not take him long to decide. 
He telegraphed to the hospital. 

The next day Ida Kahn stepped aboard 
the steamboat that plied down Poyang 
Lake. After a three days' journey she 









landed in the city of Nanchang. Wel- 
comed by both Mr. Tseo and the gray- 
haired grandmother, she sipped a cup of 
tea while they told her of Mrs. Tseo's 
illness. Then she entered the sick-room 
and talked cheerfully and quietly with the 
patient. Dr. Kahn was not afraid of her, 
for she knew that no evil spirit had caused 
her sickness. In but a few days' time the 
mother grew very much better; and when 
Dr. Kahn felt she must return to Kiukiang 
to her other patients in the hospital, she 
said, "Let me take Mrs. Tseo with me, 
and let her stay in our hospital a few weeks, 
and I think she will return to you a dif- 
ferent woman. 5: 

So it all came about that after a few 
wonderful weeks with the two doctors in 
Kiukiang, Mrs. Tseo returned home very 
much better. She told her friends and 
neighbors of her wonderful experience. Mr. 
Tseo told of it to one and another of the 
wealthy Chinese gentlemen whom he knew. 
So the news spread from home to home 
in the great city of Nanchang. 



"We should have a hospital like that in 
our own city," some of them said. 

The result was that a group of these 
officials met together, and among them- 
selves they raised enough money with 
which to build a hospital. Then they 
wrote to Dr. Kahn and said, "If you will 
come and live in Nanchang and take care 
of a hospital, we will build one for you." 

Dr. Kahn could not refuse, although it 
meant leaving Dr. Stone alone in the 
hospital at Kitikiang to care for the thou- 
sands of patients who were coming there 
each year. A large beautiful hospital was 
built in Nanchang, in every w r ay just as 
fine as the one in Kiukiang. Then Dr. 
Kahn began to train her own nurses and 
it was not long before thousands of women 
and children the lame, the blind, those 
sick with fevers, and those with broken 
limbs came to her for healing. With no 
other doctor to help her among all the 
thousands of that great Chinese city, Dr. 
Kahn brought the desperately sick back 

to health and performed the most serious 



operations. Every one in Nanchang learned 
the name of Dr. Kahn. As her sedan chair 
was carried through the narrow streets, 
Chinese gentlemen would look toward her 
and say, "Our doctor.' 1 

Happy Pearl was allowed to go to 
Kiukiang to attend the school among the 
mulberry trees. Although she had always 
been accustomed to a beautiful home 
where servants were ever ready to wait 
upon her, in Miss Howe's school she gladly 
swept and dusted just the same as girls 
who came from one-room huts of mud. 
Eager to do her very best in her studies, 
she often slipped out of bed in the morn- 
ings before the other girls; and Miss 
Howe would see her before breakfast sit- 
ting with a book in her hand out under the 
shade of a mulberry tree. 

Incense sticks, the burning of candles 
before ancestral tablets, the chanting of 
monotonous prayers to idols of wood, and 
the fear of evil spirits meant nothing to 
her any more. She learned of the loving 

Jesus and of the Father in heaven who 



cares for us all. She gradually loosened 
the bandages that bound her feet until 
finally she could remove them entirely, 
for she too wanted to be useful like the 
two doctors. 

By the time she was graduated from the 
Mulberry School, she had decided on the 
work which she wanted to do as a w r oman, 
She sailed across the wide Pacific to Amer- 
ica to study in a medical school, that she 
too might care for the sick and the lame 
and the blind and the fevered and that 
she, too, might help to drive from their 
hearts the fear of evil spirits. 




"IT 7HY, that child of ours limps!" 
VV exclaimed Mr. Gracey as he stood 
watching his little two-year-old toddle 
across the parlor floor in their home at 
Clifton Springs, New York. He then 
realized for the first time that the scarlet 
fever had left her lame. As the years 
passed and Ida grew larger, the slight 
limp became worse. Each step as she 
walked brought an awkward jolt to her 
little body. So crutches were given to help 
her. When old enough to go to school, 
Ida tried, in spite of her lameness, to do 
as many things as she could that other 
children did. 

She loved the summer time when all 
the family went to live in their cottage 
on one of the beautiful islands of the 
Saint Lawrence River. She flitted about 



on her crutches almost as quickly as any- 
one else, as they gathered wild flowers, 
climbed over rocks, or chased their run- 
away donkey. She enjoyed equally well 
sitting quietly on a hillside watching the 
birds as they fluttered from branch to 
branch and from tree to tree. She learned 
to recognize each red and yellow breast, 
each white-tipped wing and each crested 
head. She could call the birds by name. 
She learned also to understand the lan- 
guage of their songs. 

She loved to handle the oars and to 
row a boat up and down between the 
islands. Now and again she sat with her 
father and sister, each holding a fishing 
rod out over the clear water waiting for a 
nibble. Often in the twilight she sat on 
the steps playing her banjo. No jollier 
girl than the lame Ida Gracey roamed the 
Thousand Islands of the Saint Lawrence. 

The little girl grew to be a young woman. 
In spite of her crutches, she worked and 
earned her own living. The lame limbs, 
however, became more useless and weak. 



The doctors thought that they might help 
her and she went to the Sanitarium in 
Clifton Springs for a few weeks of special 
treatment. But their hopes were not real- 
ized. She never again became well enough 
to leave the Sanitarium. 

After a while it was not only her hips 
and knees and ankle bones that pained her, 
but her eyes grew weak and sunlight on 
them brought excruciating pain. When 
taken out into the garden in a wheel 
chair to see the pretty ducks in the pond, 
she wore dark green glasses over her eyes. 
The shutters before the windows of her 
room were always kept closed. One after- 
noon a very fine eye doctor came to her 
darkened room and for an hour he examined 
and tested her eyes. Then, sitting on the 
edge of her bed, he said, "Well, girlie, I 
know of nothing I can do.' : 

The darkened room became her parlor. 
Friends who had known her for a long 
time liked to call frequently and to visit 
by her bedside. Those who had never 
seen her before asked for the privilege of 



calling. Entering the door, they saw a 
dainty girl with dark hair and dark gray 
eves lying on her white bed or sitting 

\J t/ O dJ 

propped up against pillows, with always a 
few bows of pink ribbons dotting the neck 
of her clean white gown. Sometimes her 
callers came from lands far away. Dr. 
Mary Stone, on one of her visits to Amer- 
ica, lingered occasionally to chat with the 
cheerful cripple, and ever after she and 
Ida Gracey were good friends. 

For six long years Ida never walked. 
During all the hours and weeks of all 
those years she never knew what it w r as 
not to feel pain somewhere in some joint 
or limb. Sometimes for hours her suffer- 
ings would be so great that her weak body 
would be twisted and flung about on her 
bed in agony. The doctor of the hospital 
watched her with the greatest care, and 
gave her every comfort he could think of; 
for he said, "I feel as though I were caring 
for an angel of God.' : Yet there was little 
he could do. In the long lonely hours of 
the night she suffered most. As she 



tossed to and fro in her bed in her agony 
she found comfort in the Bible thought of 
heaven. 'There shall be no night there," 
she said to herself. One morning a friend 
knowing that Ida had suffered much dur- 
ing the night before, came to her room. 
She saw lying on the clean white pillow a 
face still marked by the stains of the tears 
and the suffering of the night, yet bearing 
a sweet smile. 

"How can you be so bright and dear 
and beautiful," asked the friend, "when 
you suffer so?" 

"The attack only lasted two hours this 
time," she answered, sweetly. 

A stranger after just ten minutes with 
this cheerful sufferer came out of the 
room with tears in her eyes. "How can I 
thank you enough," she said to the doctor, 
"for letting me see her? I am a better 
woman forever. I'm ashamed of myself. 
I could see she was suffering, but she paid 
no attention to her pains and talked 
sw r eetly to me with smiles on her face. 
How can she do it?" 



"She is the j oiliest girl and no one else 
could be so patient and sweet," said the 
man who cleaned the windows of her 
room and who pushed her bed about while 
he worked the vacuum sweeper. 

"Flowers had a fancy for flying to her 
from near and far, Boston, Buffalo, Phila- 
delphia, Rochester, Syracuse, New York and 
elsewhere, sometimes more than there was 
room for." Real live fairies brought them 
to her room. They pinned tiny pink roses 
near her slender white neck. They placed 
vases of white lilacs on the table beside 
the bed of their "little white lilac." These 
flower children of the sun seemed to like 
to visit in this darkened room of Ida's, 
for she was its sunlight. 

Children brought their dolls to her to 
play with. They sat their Teddy Bears 
on the counterpane to keep her company. 
"Tiny chicks a few hours old and new 
ducklings from the duck pond in West Park, 
funny little bunches of fuzz, cheeped- 
cheeped and tumbled about her pillows, 
shoulders and neck. Kittens and puppies 



played and live babies crept over her 
couch and cuddled down in her arms. 
The little Italian boy who danced for the 
guests in the foyer went up to her room 
to dance and sing for her.' 5 "At Hal- 
loween big yellow pumpkins sat at the 
foot of her bed and made Jack-o'-Lantern 
eyes at her in the dark. 5 ' 

Letters too seemed to take delight in 
traveling to the sick room. They were 
piled under her pillows and something that 
looked like a mail bag hung over the head 
of her bed. She liked to write letters as 
well as to receive them. Propped up 
against a pile of pillows she would write 
cheerful messages to her friends. 

Ida had been able to lay aside only 
enough money to pay for a few weeks' 
stay in the Sanitarium. Yet she never 
worried. "I trust my heavenly Father," 
she said; and money too, was put into her 
hands as if by God's own fairies, just 
when she needed it to pay her bills. 

Loving and jolly and cheerful herself, in 
spite of her constant suffering, she won 



the love of everyone who saw her. In the 
long, lonely hours of the dark nights she 
used to thank the heavenly Father for all 
this love. Yet Ida Gracey never spent 
long thinking of herself. She thought 
rather of other cripples who did not know 
the joy of such love and tender care. She 
remembered Dr. Mary Stone and the na- 
tion of crippled girls across the wide waters. 
Some of the tears that fell on her pillow came 
as she was dreaming of these little Chinese 
girls hobbling about on their aching feet. 

She dreamed too of other Chinese chil- 
dren who like herself had been made lame 
by sickness. She saw them alone in dark 
rooms with never a kiss of love or a pretty 
flower or a doctor to ease their pains. In 
her dreams she saw crippled Chinese girls 
as slaves moving themselves about on stools 
or crawling on the floors of dirty mud huts 
trying to work. In her dreams she saw 
other crippled Chinese children beaten by 
grown-ups who were trying to drive out the 
evil spirits who, they supposed, had made 

the little bodies lame. Ida Gracey dreamed 



too of the filthy baby pond back of Dr. 
Stone's hospital where little baby girls were 
drowned by fathers and mothers who did 
not want them. 

Then her dreams began to turn to 
happy ones. She saw the dirty baby pond 
disappear and standing in its place she 
thought she saw a neat gray brick build- 
ing, the first home for crippled children 
in all the land of China. She dreamed that 
she was taken inside this new building 
and that there she saw crippled Chinese 
children moving about on crutches in a 
schoolroom where a Chinese woman was 
teaching them to read and write. She 
saw a kindergarten of happy Chinese crip- 
ples and a manual training room full of 
busy crippled boys. She dreamed that she 
heard Chinese women telling them of the 
love of the Father in heaven. She awoke 
with a smile on her face. It was but a 
dream, yet she felt that God was beside 
her and that she heard his voice speak to 
her: "Ida Gracey, you may help make 
that happy dream come true. ! 

3 true,' 



As friends and strangers came to call, 
she told them of her thoughts in the night 
hours. They said, k \Ve too want to help 
you make vour dream come true;' and 

i i 

they placed in her frail hand silver pieces 
and dollar bills. Women gave her their 
rings and necklaces. 'The medical super- 
intendent of the Sanitarium brought his 
baby girl with a big gold piece clutched in 
her tiny fist to drop it on the invalid's 
pillow/' The pretty ducks with rainbow 
necks that swam in the pond were given 
to Ida, and their tiny baby ducklings were 
sold and the money saved for the cripples' 
home in China. 

At Christmas time Ida had a Christinas 
tree in her room. Her sister decorated it 
with tinsel, bright-colored chains, gold and 
silver balls. Ida called it 'The Chinese 
cripples' Christmas tree.' ! Guests in the 
Sanitarium dropped in to see the pretty 
tree. They brought gold and silver pieces 
wrapped up in tiny boxes or rolled in little 
rolls tied with Christmas ribbons and hung 

them on the tree for the cripples of China. 



Some of the bundles contained rings or 
solid silver spoons to be sold for the crip- 
ples' home. Each day added a little to 
the fund. At last one thousand dollars 
were given to her. 

"See! Don't you want to look at it?" 
she exclaimed to a friend one afternoon as 
she sat propped up against her pillows 
about to write a letter. "It's my check 
for one thousand dollars which I am now 
sending to Dr. Stone so that she may buy 
the land for the cripples' home.' : 

The letter hurried over land and sea to 
Dr. Stone in Kiukiang. When the doctor 
received it she went to the Chinese gentle- 
man who owned the baby pond and the 
land about it. She persuaded him to sell 
her the place for one thousand dollars. 
Immediately they had the pond filled up 
with earth and they made it ready for 
the cripples' home which they knew would 
some day stand in its place ; for an American 
cripple on the other side of the world was 
dreaming and praying. 

The cheerful Ida lying on her bed in 



the Sanitarium at Clifton Springs con- 
tinued to talk of her dream. The wealthy 


and the poor alike found it a joy to slip 
a bit of money or a check into her pure 
white hands. It was her greatest joy to 
watch the fund grow, from one thousand 
dollars to two thousand and from two 
thousand to three thousand. 

It was the last night that this beautiful 
soul lingered in her frail body. Her sister 
bending over her spoke of a small sum of 
money which their mother had left them. 
"Don't you think it would be nice to put 
it into your cripples' fund as mother's 
contribution ?' ! she asked. 

'Yes, lovely!" said the voice from the 
pillow. Then came the long silence. As 
she had once said, she was no more afraid 
to die than to put her head on her pillow! 
"So God took her to himself as a mother 
would lift a sleeping child from a dark 
uneasy bed into her arms and the light." 1 

1 Quotation adapted from Robert Browning. 




MR. and Mrs. Chiang had a pretty 
Chinese home in the city of Kiu- 
kiang. Sons, daughters, and a grandmother, 
besides servants, lived with them in the 
many rooms built about the open courts. 
The Chiangs also had a good name among 
their neighbors, and the fact that they 
possessed more of the good things of life 
than many about them added to the 
esteem in which they were held. One 
misfortune had come to them, however; 
and in spite of all that they could do, 
this evil stayed with them. A daughter of 
the home was born a cripple. 

"Such a misshapen body as that should 
be drowned in the baby pond," said the 

One member of the family, however, 



had heard of the Jesus religion, and he 
would not allow the baby's life to be 
taken. Yet ^he mother was afraid of her 
own child. 

'This bent back and these helpless 
limbs are the work of an evil spirit,' 1 she 
thought. "He is angry with me. This 
child is my punishment. I hate the sight 
of her." 

So for much of the time the helpless 
little cripple was stowed away in a room 
by herself out of their sight. "Let us call 
her by a beautiful name. Let us call her 
Spring Lotus, " said the mother. "Then 
perhaps the evil spirits will think she is 
as beautiful as her name and will come 
and take her away.' : 

Five years old, six years old, ten years 
old she became, yet her poor crumpled 
body seemed the size of a child half her 
age. For days and weeks at a time she 
lay on her curtained bed. Twice a day 
servants brought her a bit of rice and a 
drink of tea, just enough to keep her from 
starving, but not enough to feed her poor 



sick body. Sometimes by leaning on a 
stool she would drag herself along the 
hard stone floor to the courtyard; there to 
hear only cross words spoken in her ears. 
"Out of sight! Back to your room, you 
crawling worm! You ugly toad! Child 
of evil!" 

No flowers scented her room with their 
sweet fragrance. No friends came to call 
or to bring her toys. No one thought of 
reading her a story. With nothing to do 
and nothing to see and with no one to 
talk kindly to her, Spring Lotus passed the 
long, long days and weeks of her child- 
hood. No one said, "Please" or "Thank 
you" to her; she never said "Please" or 
"Thank you" to anyone else. No one 
smiled at her with a smile of love; Spring 
Lotus too forgot how to smile. Cross, harsh 
words were the kind she heard spoken to 
her; she learned to answer back in the 
same sharp, coarse tones. Her ugly de- 
formed body wore an ugly face ugly be- 
cause of the ugly thoughts it spoke. 

Twelve, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years 



old she became. Still she looked with her 
hunched back and her shrunken limbs no 
larger than a child of ten. 

Finally, one day a son of the family 
said, "Why not send Spring Lotus to the 
hospital of the Jesus folk? No telling what 
those two women doctors might do for 
her with their Western magic.' 1 So in a 
wheelbarrow this neglected cripple was car- 
ried over the rough stones of the street to 
the gate leading to the white gravel path 
beside the red and yellow and white 
chrysanthemums. Soon a pretty nurse 
washed Spring Lotus and put her in a 
clean white nightgown and gently tucked 
her away between two white sheets in a 
beautiful big sunshiny room in the hos- 
pital. "The Little Doctor" examined ten- 
derly her crooked back and limbs and 
leaning over her pillow said sweetly, *W 7 e 
are going to do all we can for you because 
we love you." 

Spring Lotus had entered a new world. 
She lay on her soft pillow watching the 
blue-gowned nurses as they stepped quietly 



about from bed to bed, always hearing 
them speak in soft sweet tones. Three 
times a day they brought her a tray full 
of well-cooked food rice, and milk and 
fish and vegetables of many kinds. "Eat 
all you wish, Spring Lotus," they said. 
She knew not how to act in this new world. 
She never thought to say "Thank you" or 
"Please." Her sour face could not learn 
to smile hi a day. She had never been 
taught to speak other than in harsh cross 
tones. A Grumpy, however, could not live 
long in the love and the sunshine of that 
hospital. The change came to Spring Lotus 
just as truly as if a fairy had waved her 
wand over her. 

Her thin body grew plump. Day after 
day a woman came and sat by her bed- 
side and told her stories stories from the 
Bible stories about Jesus and of how he 
cared for the sick. "Jesus never jeered 
at a cripple. Jesus never feared an evil 
spirit," she said. "He was always kind 
and loving to the sickest and to the ugliest. 
The love of Jesus is like the love of the 



God of heaven. So we should all love one 
another. This is the Jesus religion." 

"I want to follow your Jesus too,' 5 said 
Spring Lotus one day. "Jesus has done 
so much for me, the least I can ever do is 
to do all I can to make others happy." 

So the thin sour face grew round and 
pleasant. When wheeled about in a hos- 
pital chair, she had a cheery word to speak 
to those who lay on their backs in bed. 
Her fingers learned to be busy. She 
knitted babies' bootees and sweaters and 
scarfs. She cut and folded bandages for 
the hospital. She embroidered dainty pat- 
terns for dresses. 

Spring Lotus remained in the hospital 
not for a few weeks or months only, but 
for years. There was no other place where 
she could live. The "Little Doctor" had 
not the heart to send her back to that 
lonely dark room where she would still 
be feared and scolded. So the nurses 
taught her to read and to write, and they 
found her very clever; yet they were quite 

surprised one day when she said, "May I 



become a pupil in the Bible Woman's 
Training School? I want so much to learn 
more so that, even though I am a cripple, 
I may be some use in the world.' 1 

The missionaries hesitated. 'Would 
Spring Lotus be strong enough to study 
hard like the others in the school?' 3 they 

Then, too, she was so helpless. She 
could not go up and down stairs. She 
could not dress herself. Even if they had 
bought crutches, her limbs were too weak 
to use them. How could they have a 
pupil in the school who could move herself 
about only by pushing a stool in front of 
her and dragging her body after it? Some 
one would have to be ready to wait on 
Spring Lotus all the time. They talked 
the matter over for some time and they 
prayed God to show them the Christian 
thing to do. The girls of the school also 
thought and prayed. 

Then one day another surprise came to 
the missionaries. "Please, " said Siung 
Ching-fung, one of the girls, "let me be 



'Big Sister' to Spring Lotus, and let me 
take care of her while she goes to school.' 1 
So this happy cripple entered the school. 
During all the three years of her school 
life, Siung Ching-fung kept faithful to her 
promise. Morning and night she dressed 
Spring Lotus; she combed her hair; many 
times during the day she carried her on 
her back up and down the stairs. She ran 
a hundred and one errands for her. Then 
when Spring Lotus finished her course, the 
question was again asked, "What can 
Spring Lotus do?" Again the courageous 
little cripple was ready for something hard. 
Back of the big hospital, above the place 
where once was the baby pond, there now 
stood a neat two-story gray brick building. 
To the left of the doorway, on a brass 
tablet, were written these words: 'The 
Ida Gracey Cripples' Home.' : Spring Lotus 
always liked to hear Dr. Stone tell of the 
brave American cripple who had given 
them that home. Spring Lotus liked to 
be wheeled over there where she could 
watch and listen. In one cheery school- 


Spring Lotus and her "Big Sister" 

"Slie looked with her hunched back and her shrunken limbs 
no larger than a child of ten*' 


room she saw cripple children at their 
desks studying. In another room she saw 
kindergarten children sitting in a circle 
of little chairs, singing and playing. In 
another room she watched older boys and 
girls, all cripples, at their work benches, 
handling jig saws and making toy boats. 
Her "Big Sister" would wheel her up the 
inclined plane which took the place of a 
stairway, and there she would see rows 
of clean white beds in a light, cheery room. 
The very contrast reminded Spring Lotus of 
the lonely dark room in which she had spent 
most of the hours of her childhood, and she 
said, "We thank God for Ida Gracey.' : 

For a while after her graduation Spring 
Lotus was the house mother for this 
household of cripples; and her faithful 
"Big Sister" was her helper. One day 
word came from the town of Tai Hu, 
three days' journey from Kiukiang by 
wheelbarrow. "Our little school building 
is completed. Send us a teacher, for 
mothers are eager to send their children 
to school. >: 



For many days the missionaries puzzled 
over this request and prayed. There was 
no other girl who had completed her three- 
years' course who could be sent except 
Spring Lotus. Could she, even with the 
help of "Big Sister," go to teach school in 
the country? Would the Chinese send 
their children to a school taught by a 
hunchback cripple girl? Would they not 
fear that she had an evil spirit? And 
would not the children run away from her? 
So the missionaries feared. Some said, 
"Let her go and try it." Others said, 
"No, it would be very unwise." Finally, 
however, knowing that there was no one 
else to go, they decided to let Spring Lotus 
try it. 

So for three days, on two wheelbarrows, 
Spring Lotus and her "Big Sister" were 
jogged along over the rough, country paths. 
On reaching Tai Hu they began to make 
themselves at home in the school building, 
in a couple of little rooms just back of the 
school room. 

Then when the courageous hunchback 



cripple sat at the teacher's table and be- 
gan to talk to the thirty or forty Chinese 
girls and boys seated before her, another 
Christian magic began to be wrought. 
Day by day her spirit of happiness and 
goodness became more contagious. The 
children did not want to be naughty with 
Spring Lotus there trying so hard to be 
good to them. Then, too, Spring Lotus 
really needed them. There were so many 
things she could not do. She could not 
dust the desks each morning; she could 
not walk about to wait on the littlest 
children; she could not clean the black- 
boards. Of course the children wanted 
to do these things for her, and they would 
stay after school or come early in the 
mornings to help her. They liked to play 
at being her "Big Sister" or her "Big 
Brother," and to run errands for her. 

In addition to reading, writing, and 
arithmetic, Spring Lotus taught them to 
make things, to crochet, to knit, and to 
sew dainty garments and to make things 
with pasteboard and paper. These pretty 



things the children often took home, and 
they talked to their mothers about this 
lovely teacher of theirs. Spring Lotus also 
told the children stories stories of Jesus 
and stories of other boys and girls and 
the children retold these stories at home. 

Then the mothers came to the school, 
for they said. 'We want to see this strange 
cripple teacher about whom our children 
talk so much." 

"How have you done it, Teacher Chiang?' : 
they would ask. : Tt used to be when I 
asked my boy to do a bit of work at home, 
he would whine and scold; now he seems 
to to be useful." 

"How have you done it? ;: ' another would 
ask. "My little girl never seemed to be 
.satisfied. What she had was never so nice 
as what some other little girl had. Xow 
she is as busy as a bee all the day arid as 
happy as a lark." 

; \Ve too want to learn how to make 
the things you have taught our children 
to make." said some of the mothers. So 

after school Spring Lotus had a mothers' 



class, and she taught them also to knit 
bootees and scarfs and to sew pretty gar- 
ments. To the children and mothers she 
kept telling stories stories from the Bible 
stories about Jesus. 

''If the foreigners' God can make a poor 
hunchback cripple .so beautiful, he is the 
God for us. He must be the true God. 
and we will try to please him." they said. 

Her children were no longer afraid of 


the power of evil spirits. They would 
not burn incense before the ancestral tab- 
lets at home, nor would they burn paper 
monev at the graves of their dead ^rand- 

4 C^ 

fathers. They would no longer jeer at 
cripples on the street, and at home they 
tried to be helpful to their mothers, and 
never had they been so happy in their 
lives, for they were Christians. 

And all the while as Spring Lotus day 
by day taught her children, the 'Big 
Sister" kept house in the two little rooms 
back of the schoolroom. Each day she 
dressed and undressed Spring Lotus and 

combed her hair. Each day she swept 



the schoolroom for her; and when Spring 
Lotus did not need her, she went about 
from home to home in the village visiting 
the mothers and the grandmothers and 
doing kindnesses for the sick and the lonely. 

So the love of the Jesus folk spread. 
A missionary crossed the wide ocean to 
do her bit. Mr. and Mrs. Shih were among 
the first who forsook the ways of their 
ancestors, and were laughed at for fol- 
lowing the religion of the "foreign devils.' 
Two Chinese girl babies were cared for 
in Christian homes, one in the Shih home, 
and the other in the home of Miss Howe. 
They were the first among millions of their 
Chinese sisters whose feet were allowed to 
grow to their normal size. Becoming doc- 
tors, they treated in their hospital thou- 
sands of women and girls whose feet were 
bound. These patients of theirs watched 
the two women walking about so easily 
on their natural feet and saw that they 
were respected throughout the entire city. 
Some of them took courage and they, too, 



unbound their feet. Back again in their 
villages, they told their neighbors. Others 
caught the contagion of their courage and 
said, "We will no longer bind our daughters' 
feet." Anti-foot-bindirig Societies were 
formed here and there throughout the 
country. Finally, after many years, up in 
Peking, the capital city, a law was passed 
against foot-binding. Although thousands 
of Chinese women and girls still hobble 
about on crippled stumps of feet, yet the 
number of little girls who suffer for the 
sake of "lily feet" grows smaller year by 

The two courageous doctors continued to 
heal thousands of sick women and children 
and to love them as they had never been 
loved before. Other missionaries left their 
homes to do their bit. More Chinese 
taught and preached and nursed for the 
sake of Jesus, and other Chinese girls de- 
cided to become doctors. 

A girls' school was opened and there 
other girls were trained to tell Bible Stories 
and were taught how to teach. A cripple 



lying on her bed in America persuaded 
others to give money for a cripples' home 
in China. A crippled girl in China, made 
ugly and cross by neglect, was changed by 
love into a beautiful and courageous spirit. 
Then she and her "Big Sister" in their 
turn spread love and gladness into the 
hearts of a village full of boys and girls. 

So this contagious love, like the love of 
Jesus, spreads from one person to another. 
More children and more grown-ups learn 
to be loving and useful, and more boys 
and girls everywhere are given a better 
chance to be happy. This is the kingdom 
of God. "It is like a tiny piece of yeast,' 3 
said Jesus in substance, "which a woman 
hides in a big lump of dough until after a 
while it changes entirely the whole mass 
of the dough. So does the kingdom of 
God within you." 






IN a small white house with green shut- 
ters in a village not far from Boston 
lived a father and mother and four children. 
Outside a snow coverlet hid the ground, 
and the wind blew hard. Indoors three 
little girls, Stella, Lottie and Florence, lay 
asleep in their warm beds. At a plain 
pine table in the living room, sat Mother 
Withey and her eleven-year-old son, Her- 
bert. An oil lamp hanging from the low 
ceiling shed a soft light over the blue 
patterned tablecloth. 

The mother was sewing while Herbert 
read aloud from a book about Henry M. 
Stanley and his adventures in the un- 
known continent of Africa. Page after 
page Herbert read of tramps through 
jungles, of hippopotami, of leopards, and of 
black savages beating their drums and 
dancing their war dances. A flush spread 



over his cheeks as he read. Now and again 
he would lay his book down and step to 
the side of the room where on the wall 
hung a map of Africa. 

Not for one winter's evening only, but 
for many evenings, the mother and Herbert 
sat under the hanging lamp, one reading 
to the other from this book, or from some 
other book about Africa which found its 
way to the Withey home. 

When spring came and the green grass 
spread its soft carpet over the pasture 
behind the little white house, Herbert and 
his three sisters and their schoolmates 
played they were in Africa. They turned 
themselves into play caravans carrying 
heavy burdens, with sticks for guns. They 
marched across play streams and swamps. 
They tramped through play jungle grass 
and thick forests. Some of the boys were 
powerful black chiefs and held palavers 
with the white men, while the white men 
watched the painted savages fight. At last 
under the big oak tree, which became the 
town of Ujiji, they found Livingstone. 



Yet Herbert could not play and read 
interesting books about Africa all the time. 
He was in the seventh grade of the village 
school, and much of the day he spent in 
study. Then, too, his father being away 
preaching much of the time, Herbert had 
to be the man of the house. He sawed and 
split all the \vood for the three stoves. 
Each day he carried several pails of water 
from a neighbor's well, and on Saturdays 
he helped his mother wash the clothes. 

There were errands to be run to the 
grocery store and to the post office. In 
the late afternoons when the sun had 
early hidden his face behind the purple 
hills, Herbert would often return along the 
path in the dark alone. As he crossed the 
old bridge, under an overhanging oak tree, 
drops of water would fall on the shaky 
boards with a spooky drip, drip, drip. 
Then he would climb the hill beyond, past 
the empty horsesheds that stood along- 
side the dark, empty church. As he 
walked briskly through the shadows Her- 
bert kept a soldier's brave heart, for he 



was whispering the prayer, "O God, thou 
art with me. Take care of me.' : Between 
his prayers he whistled till at last he 
reached the door of the little white house 
with green shutters. 

One afternoon as his father was working 
in the woodshed at the side of the house, 
Herbert stood by with his hands in his 
pockets watching the sharp saw as it cut 
the logs for firewood. After some time, 
although his eyes still watched the moving 
saw, they noticed nothing, for Herbert was 
dreaming of the time when he too would 
be a man. He asked his father many 
questions. 'When did you first meet 
mother? How did you choose her rather 
than some other woman to live with you 
always?' 1 

The father told his boy all the wonderful 
story. He talked of his love for his wife 
and of his care for her happiness. He told 
his son how God had helped him in the 
choosing. For a moment the saw stopped 
moving and the father stood straight and 
looked his boy in the face. "Herbert," he 



said, "y ur future wife must be some- 
where in the world. Why not, even now, 
begin to pray for her?" 

This new thought sent a manly glow to 
the lad's eyes, and in his heart he truly 
prayed for the little girl in the far-off 
somewhere who one day would be his 
wife. With his chest high and his head 
erect he walked through the door into the 
little white house, for he was thinking, 
;i l must live worthy of her.' 

In the evening as he sat under the hang- 
ing lamp, trying to read, every now and 
again he let his book fall to his lap and he 
stared vacantly at the floor. He was 
wandering what he would be doing in that 
far-off sometime when he grew to be a man. 

The next summer there came to Stella, 
Lottie, Florence, and Herbert one of the 
best times of their lives. With their 
father and mother they moved out of the 
little white house with green shutters, and 
went to spend the summer in a tent in a 
big pine woods. A great many other 
grown-ups and children camped in other 



tents in the pine woods. Each day the 
people of the camp gathered for preaching, 
singing, and praying. Their church was a 
hillside with the sky for a roof and with 
soft pine needles for a carpet. They sat 
on rough boards nailed at each end to 
posts set in the ground. Among the many 
preachers who spoke to them from the 
pulpit at the foot of this hillside was a 
tall man with a long, gray beard, whom 
every one called Bishop Taylor. Just like 
Herbert, this tall bishop was very much 
interested in the black man's land- -the 
land of Livingstone. 

Sometimes when the grown-ups were 
holding their meetings, the Withey children 
would go blueberrying. Sometimes they 
played in the brook. Sometimes they took 
their seats alongside the grown-ups on 
the rough planks on the hillside. One 
morning, Herbert seated himself near the 
front, for the tall bishop with the long, 
gray beard was going to speak. He was 
also eager to study the large map of Africa 
which had been stretched between two 



high posts back of the preacher's stand. 
No one else on the hillside listened more 
closely than Herbert as the Bishop told of 
his plan to cross the wide ocean to the west 
coast of Africa. 

"I want some of you as volunteers," he 
said, "men and women who are willing to 
spend their lives in teaching these black 
savages about the love of God. Unlike 
most other missionaries, each man who 
goes with me must earn his own living 
by farming and trading. I believe we can 
do it. In this way the money given in 
America can be used to send out more 
missionaries, and the work we will do will 
help us to become better acquainted with 
the black people in Africa.' 1 

Herbert's cheeks flushed. He thought to 
himself, "I wish I were old enough to go.' : 
Then he shook his head. "No, it is out 
of the question. I must go longer to 
school. If I live, however, I believe I 
shall some day go to Africa.' 1 

Another afternoon the Bishop passed 
Stella and Herbert in the path by the 



brook and said, "Would you be good 
enough to mail these letters for me and 
fetch me a pitcher of water from the 

" Certainly," came the cheery replies, and 
they skipped away, one to the post office 
and the other to the pump. As she tripped 
along the path, Stella sang one of the 
songs of the camp meeting. The Bishop 
heard the sweet notes as the breeze carried 
them back to him. On her return, the 
Bishop touched her on the shoulder and 
said, "I wish I could have you in Africa 
to sing songs about Jesus to the black 
children there.' 

A blush came to her cheeks and she 
too began to wonder about Africa. 

The time came when Bishop Taylor was 
to speak for the last time. When the 
meeting was over, Herbert's father wedged 
his way through the crowd to the speaker's 
stand, and spoke to the Bishop. 'There is 
a lady here," he said, "who wishes to give 
money to pay for the sending of one mis- 
sionary to Africa." 



The Bishop wrote her name and address 
in a book. Then lifting his big gray eyes, 
he looked Mr. Withey over from his head 
to his feet. "Mr. Withey," he said, "I 
think that you yourself would make a 
good missionary to Africa. What is your 
business? How many children have you? 
Why couldn't you go?" 

The last question Mr. Withey could not 
answer, for the Bishop had to hurry out 
of the camp ground to catch his train. 

A few weeks passed. The Withey s all 
returned to live in the little white house 
with green shutters. One day Herbert 
brought a letter home from the post office. 
Mr. Withey, opening it, read it aloud to 
his wife. This is what Herbert remembers 

"There are now over twenty men and 
women ready to go with me in this first 
party of missionaries to the black man's 
land in Africa. We will have to travel by 
foot far up the black man's trails through 
the jungles and wild forests. We must 
not expect comfortable homes. We will 



have much hard work to do in order to 
earn our own living. We must speak 
languages hard to learn. We may never 
be able to return across the wide ocean to 
see our friends again. If God calls us, 
all will be well; but we must be prepared 
to give our lives for Africa as truly as 
Jesus gave his life for the world. Will 
you not pray earnestly that you may hear 
God's voice showing you just the right 
thing to do?" 

At the close of the reading, Herbert 
heard the name, William Taylor. His 
thoughts went back to the big pine woods, 
and to the map back of the preacher's 
stand. He seemed to see the tall man 
with the long gray beard standing at the 
foot of the hillside. 

During the days which followed, Stella, 
Lottie, and Herbert with their lunches in 
their hands started out each morning as 
usual to spend the day in the little red 
schoolhouse. As usual the little five-year- 
old girlie played at home alone and fol- 
lowed her mother about as she worked. 



But Herbert soon learned that to his 
father and mother the days following the 
coming of the letter were very different 
from usual. For nine days they did only 
the most necessary work and spent as 
much time as they could in prayer. Some- 
times Herbert saw them sitting together 
in the parlor, talking with one another or 
thinking in silence. Sometimes he saw them 
go to separate rooms, and he was quite 
sure they went to talk with God. 

One evening the father and mother were 
sitting together under the hanging lamp. 
'Wife, I believe we should go," said Mr. 
Withey in a firm voice. 

"As far as I am concerned, ' ! answered 
the mother, "I would gladly go with you 
were it not for the children. For them to 
go would mean no more school. It would 
mean that they must grow up with none 
but savage black children for playmates. 
Then, too, how could we hope that they 
would grow to be strong, healthy men and 
women in that hot, sickly climate ?" 

These were hard questions for a father 



to answer, yet his heart did not fear, for 
he believed he had heard the voice of God. 
Yet he would not force her to think as he 
did. He would quietly wait. 

The next afternoon the mother sat alone 
by the window. A troubled and tear- 
stained face bent over a closed Bible. 
She lifted the book and for a moment she 
held it between her hands as she prayed, 
'' 'Heavenly Father, speak to me from the 
Book.' : Earnestly she began to search for 
a verse that would seem to be especially 
for her. Almost at once she found these 
words: "The Lord your God, who went 
in the way before you, to search you out 
a place to pitch your tents in, to show 
you by what way ye should go." Then she 
thought, "God will walk before us, too, 
along the trails through the wild forests of 
Africa when we journey for him.' ; Then 
she found this verse, "He knoweth thy 
walking through this great wilderness.' 2 
"Why should I fear," she thought, "when 
my guide knows all the way?" Then 
again she read, "Moreover your little ones, 



which ye said should be a prey, and your 
children, which in that day had no knowl- 
edge between good and evil, they shall 
go in thither, and unto them will I give it." 
It was enough. She arose, for she felt 
that God had spoken to her from the Book. 

Then she called her husband and told 
him of her experience. "Let us ask but 
one more sign from God,' : he said. "Let 
us ask the children to tell us how they 
feel about going to Africa. If they too are 
willing and believe that God wants us all 
to go to Africa, then we will know surely 
that God is calling us.' : 

So after supper, when the children were 
all sitting together about the warm fire, the 
father, speaking first to the oldest, said, "My 
son, how do you feel about going to Africa?" 

"Father," the boy answered, "I decided 
some time ago that I wanted to be a 
missionary to Africa. If you go I want 
to go too." 

The three sisters were as ready as their 
brother; not one of them cried, not one 
was afraid. 



So it was that Father Withey wrote a 
letter to Bishop Taylor, saying, "We all 
feel that God has called us. We are ready 
to go with you.' : Under the letter each 
wrote his own name: 

Amos E. Withey. Estella Withey. 

Irene F. Withey. Lottie Withey. 

Herbert Withey. Florence Withey. 

Thanksgiving and Christmas came and 
went. The Withey family were very busy 
preparing to move from the little white 
house with green shutters. 

One very cold morning in January, in 
1885, their ship sailed out from one of the 
piers in the New York harbor. Among the 
passengers who stood on the deck were 
about thirty men and women and a dozen 
children, all missionaries to Africa. As 
the boat slowly moved out into the channel, 
the missionaries stood on the windy deck 
and sang: 

"The birds without barn or storehouse are fed, 
From them let us learn to trust for our bread; 
His saints what is fitting shall ne'er be denied, 

So long as 'tis written, 'The Lord will provide.' 



Across the waters from the crowds on the 
pier came the answering song, "In the 
sweet by and by, we shall meet on that 
beautiful shore. ' ; 

Among the singing passengers on the 
deck stood twelve-year-old Herbert, ten- 
year-old Stella, eight-year-old Lottie, and 
six-year-old Florence. They watched the 
grown-up missionaries wave their handker- 
chiefs to the friends on the pier and saw 
them brush away their tears and smile; 
they heard them say with clear strong 
voices, "God is going with us; we do not 
fear;" and the four children thought, "Nei- 
ther are we afraid, for God has called 
us too." 



IT seemed a wide, wide ocean that 
stretch of water that separated America 
from the land of the black man. Two 
long months the missionary party were at 
sea before they reached the land they were 
seeking. Even when they arrived in the 
port city of Loanda, on the west coast of 
Africa, there were several months of wait- 
ing before they could journey up the 
trails of the black men into the interior, 
where they planned to settle. 

At last the Witheys and others of the 
missionary band went aboard a small 
river steamer and started up the Koanza 
River to make their new homes. The 
river was shallow and sailing was slow. It 
took the little boat two whole weeks to 
make a voyage of two hundred miles. 




The children had no reason for hurry, how- 
ever, and they enjoyed many new and 
strange sights in this wonderland of the 
black man. 

They saw sleepy old crocodiles lying in 
the mud along the river bank, and there 
was some excitement when one was shot 
by the engineer and brought aboard. They 
saw here and there along the shore vil- 
lages of mud-and-straw huts and they 
caught their first glimpse of the wild look- 
ing mop-headed black women as they came 
to the river to fetch water. 

They sailed past large lagoons where 
black fishermen were punting their canoes. 
For miles they moved between wide swamps 
where millions of mosquitoes found a happy 
home. Sleeping on deck, Herbert awoke 
one morning looking as if stung by bees. 
The stingers were mosquitoes. 

The farther up the river they went the 
narrower and shallower it grew until at 
last the boat could go no farther. They 
had reached the Portuguese trading town 
of Dondo, the end of their voyage. 



Then after a few days of preparation 
they began a fifty-two mile walk up the 
winding paths made bare by the tramp- 
ings of many black feet. With pieces of 
copper money the missionaries hired black 
men to carry their baggage. They made 
hammocks out of large pieces of canvas 
and palm-stem poles, and in these the 
porters carried the women and children 
for portions of the way. 

To ride two at a time in these swaying 
"tipoias," as the hammocks were called, 
which hung from the shoulders of two 
shiny-skinned black men, was good fun for 
the children. They laughed at the sing- 
song grunts and calls to which the porters 
kept step. In some places the tall jungle 
grass growing close against the narrow 
path shook its blades against the children's 
faces. Again a large tree trunk fallen in 
the path made the carriers twist and jerk 
as they leaped over it. Sometimes they 
held the "tipoia" high as they waded waist 
deep through a stream. Because he was 
a big boy of twelve years, for two days 


The tall jungle grass shook its blades against their faces 


Herbert walked like his father, until he was 
overcome by African fever, and he had to 
lie down under a bush by the wayside, and 
thereafter was carried in a 'tipoia" for the 
rest of the way. 

At last after many adventures, Mr. and 
Mrs. Withey, Herbert, Stella, Lottie, and 
Florence were settled in their African home 
at Pungo Andongo. It was a long, one- 
story adobe house with mud floors and a 
wide overhanging roof thatched with heavy 
jungle grass. It looked small beside the 
great rocks that stood just back of it, 
towering straight up into the air hundreds 
of feet. To the Withey family the region 
seemed like a castle of God's own making, 
high above the surrounding plains. Often 
as Herbert stood looking up at the tower- 
ing granite cliffs, he would think to him- 
self, "It took a great God to make such 
rocks! They are very big; we are very 
small! Yet this great God cares for us all!" 

The children delighted to explore in the 
passes between the rocks. Sometimes they 
found rabbits, wild goats, and troops of 



monkeys in the thick woods. Sometimes 
they played in beautiful glens, where they 
discovered springs of clear, cool water. 
Sometimes they came upon banana groves, 
and gardens beside the little straw huts 
of the black men. 

The missionaries were not the only white 
men living in this wonderland of the 
black man. Pungo Andongo was a military 
post, and the military bugle each morning 
and evening awoke the echoes among the 
rocks. Portuguese traders had built for 
themselves a row of comfortable white 
houses beside the well-beaten path. They 
knew that caravans of black carriers from 
the forest many miles inland passed daily 
along this path bringing on their shoulders 
bundles of rubber, ivory, beeswax or coffee 
to sell to the white men. About some of 
the houses the Portuguese traders had 
made large clearings and around these 
they had built walls to keep away the 
wild beasts. In these caravansaries, as 
they called them, the traders invited the 
caravans to rest, and hundreds of black 



t ~~ 


feet beat hard the ground inside those 

One morning a long line of black men 
walked single file up the path from the 
forest. Each man carried on his shoulder 
a sort of basket filled with rubber. They 
stopped before one of the houses of the 
white merchants and laid down their loads. 
Two white men stepped to the door and 
handed them several big round bottles of 
rum or :< ualende" -"burning water," as 
the black men called it. Servants gave the 
leaders of the caravan some dried fish and 
manioc flour to be cooked into "fungi," 
and well content the black men passed 
into the caravansary. 

There they started a camp fire, and 
cooked the dried fish and flour and drank 
of the "burning water." Then they began 
dancing. Long after the sun's red ball 
had sunk behind the hills, these black 
men from the forest continued to dance, 
clapping their hands and shouting wildly. 
Indeed, the noise of their yelling kept up 
far into the night. 



In the morning they stood once more 
before the white men's store. Again the 
white men handed to them gifts, brightly 
colored shirts, sashes, handkerchiefs, and 
parasols, together with a coat and trousers 
for the head man of the caravan. Each 
black carrier found something he could 
put on his head, wrap around his waist or 
carry in his hand. So arrayed in their 
gay finery they marched up and down the 
path, beating a tin oil can for a drum, 
singing their savage music and looking 
very proud. 

Then came the weighing of the rubber 
on the white man's scales, and the paying 
for it in cloth, guns and gunpow r der, beads, 
brass wire, knives, and more of the "burning 
water," or (>< ualende,' ! in big, round bottles. 
Just as the excited black men were about 
to start back along the trail to their vil- 
lages, with their baskets loaded with the 
bottles of 'burning water,' 5 cloth, knives, 
guns and all, the white merchants threw 
into the crowd some good-by presents 
cheap hats, caps, and children's toys. At 



once every one dropped his load, and 
scrambled wildly for his trinkets. Finally 
the long line of black bodies and brown 
baskets passed out of sight. 

The next day another long line of black 
bodies and brown baskets moved up the 
trail. Hearing of a new kind of traders, 
the "Ingeleje" (English), as they called 
them, they decided to stop before their 
house and see if they would buy their 
wares. The missionary stepped to the 
door to meet them, but brought no big 
round bottles. 

"We want rum!" called the head man of 
the caravan. 

"We do not sell rum. We do not use it, 
nor do we keep it in our store, for we 
know it is poison," said the new white 

"Don't I see some there?" asked the chief, 
pointing to some cans of kerosene. 

"Well, do you want to try some of that?" 
said the missionary. 

So he drew a little out in a cup and 
handed it to the chief, saying, 'You had 



better put it to your nose first.' 3 Several 
of them smelled it and with disgusted 
looks turned away and passed it back to 
the missionary. 

"Well, we want some tobacco.' 5 
'We do not use tobacco either, nor do 
we sell it.' 3 

"Well, do you want to buy any of our 
rubber?' 3 asked the black chief. 

"Yes, I am ready to buy your rubber.' 3 
'What will you pay us for our rubber?' 3 
"I will give you money if you wish, or 
I will give you cloth of good quality, shoes, 
hatchets, and knives. We also sell rice, 
fish, sugar, soap, anything you wish except 
the 'burning water,' tobacco, beads, and 
useless trinkets. These things will do you 
no good. We trade you things which will 
be useful to you.' 3 

"How much will you give us for our 
rubber?' 3 asked the black chief. 

Then the missionary told them just what 
he would give them for every thirty pounds 
of rubber they had. "If you can do better 
somewhere else, I want you to go there, 

t you to go uiere," 


said the missionary. "We give you no 
gifts, but pay you the best we can in 
things that are useful.' 1 

"Let us give him our rubber," said one 
man after another. So the missionary gave 
them really more in return for their rubber 
than the other traders had ever given 
things that they would enjoy and could 
use after their return to their villages. 

'We have not come to get rich by 
making you suffer,' 5 said the missionary. 
"We have come to live with you like 
brothers. Nzambi, the Creator of us all, 
is a God of love. He is the Father of the 
black man and of the white man. We are 
all children of one big family. Therefore, 
he wants us to love one another, always 
to tell the truth, and to do only good to 
one another. Come again and we will 
tell you more." 

So the long line of black bodies with 
brown baskets on their shoulders wound 
their way down the trail and out of sight. 
When back again in their own villages, 
as they sat in circles about their camp 



fires, they talked together of these new 
white traders Nzambi's men "the men 
of God." 

"They were good to us," said some, "but 
very foolish not to get from us all they 

"They are criminals," said others. "They 
have been sent here to this land of ours 
to work out their punishment.' 1 

"No," said the head man of the caravan. 
'They are Nzambi's men. He has sent 
them. They are men of love." 

Days and weeks and years passed. The 
black men came to like the new white 
traders more and more. They brought 
them peanuts, beans, manioc meal, corn, 
and coffee and received in return rice, 
salt, fish, cloth, and other things they 
really needed. Through this trading and 
through farming, the missionaries were able 
to earn enough to live on, and even a little 
more. Those who could earn more shared 
with those missionaries who could not 
earn enough. 

From a twelve-year-old, Herbert grew 



to be a tall young man. He easily learned 
to speak Kimbundu, the language of the 
black man, and he learned to talk Portu- 
guese, the language of the white officials 
and traders. 

His father being away from home much 
of the time, Herbert was head storekeeper. 
He it was who talked and traded with the 
black carriers. Then a few black boys 
came and lived with the missionary. In 
the mornings Herbert was busy with them, 
milking the cows, breaking young bullocks 
to the yoke, planting the garden, cutting 
down trees in the nearby forest, sawing 
the logs into boards, building chicken coops 
or stone walls for a sheepfold or a cattle 
corral. In the afternoons he taught the 
boys to read and to write and told them 
of the big world beyond the end of the 
trail. Anything and everything he did. 
Up at half -past five in the morning, he was 
busy until the sun went down behind the 
purple hills. 

On Sundays he taught a Sunday school 
class and when still in his teens, he took 



his turn at preaching. He would walk 
to one of the caravansaries and standing 
by the camp fire in front of the black car- 
riers, he would tell them of Nzambi and of 
his Son Jesus. It was a very busy life to 
live, but Herbert liked it. 

One year his father and his oldest sister, 
Stella, moved to another white-walled house 
two days' journey down the trail. Two of 
the party of missionaries having returned 
to America, Mr. Withey and Stella were 
trying to take their places and to do the 
work they had left. Stella, like her older 
brother, rose at half -past five in the morn- 
ing, cooked, made butter, kept the house 
in order and taught the little black chil- 
dren. The wish of the tall man with the 
long gray beard had come true, for she often 
sang songs for the little Sunday school. 

But one morning she could not rise at 
half-past five. A burning fever flushed her 
cheeks, and she tossed on her bed in pain. 
Two days later, while her sorrowing father 
watched alone by her side, the sweet spirit 
of the child went to heaven. 



Neither her mother, nor Herbert, nor her 
younger sisters could say good-by, for no 
telegraph wire hung over the trail that 
led through the jungle to Pungo Andongo. 
The lonely father, as he sat watching for 
the last time the still quiet face of his 
daughter, seemed to hear her say to him, 
"Father, I am not there; I am up here.' : 

Many moons came and went. Florence 
was now older than her brother was when 
the family came to Africa and Lottie was 
a beautiful girl of eleven. Again sickness 
knocked at the door of the white-walled 
house. This time Lottie, the youngest, 
lay so ill she did not know her brother 
who bathed her fevered hands and face. 
At the other end of the house lay the 
mother, who too seemed to be dying, know r - 
ing nothing of Lottie's illness. Only thir- 
teen-year-old Florence and Herbert were 
there to care for the two so ill. For a 
whole week Herbert did not take off his 
clothes or lie on his bed to rest day or 
night. As he watched his loved ones with 
a heavy heart, he prayed as he had never 



prayed before, and he felt that the God 
who loved him was very near. 

The father hurried up the trail from his 
work at another station to help. Then 
Florence took sick. Herbert and his father 
went from one bed to the other, bringing 
them broth and medicine, watching day 
and night to do everything possible to 
bring them back to health. They saw the 
mother slowly grow better, but the angel 
of death called both Lottie and Florence 
to join their sister in the land far away. 

It was a very lonely-looking lad that went 
about his usual tasks. Sometimes his eyes 
and face showed where the tears had been. 
Sometimes the tears would not come, for 
the sorrow and ache w T ere too deep. This 
land of the black man- -the land for whose 
sake they had given their all seemed 
gaunt and cruel. 

"People are right," he said, "who call 
this 'the land of the white man's grave.' 
White women and children should not try 
to live in this terrible country. Yet it is 
one of the countries in which the message 



of God's love must be told. This is work 
for men, not for women. I may never 
have a home of my own. I should never 
ask a woman to come and live here for 
my sake.' 1 

He felt much like a soldier in a long, 
hard battle. He did not wish he had not 
enlisted. He would not desert his Com- 
mander. He did not doubt that God had 
called them all to this land. That question 
they had settled once for all back in the 
little white house with green shutters. 
As a family they had devoted themselves 
to the cause of the kingdom of God in 
Africa and they would stand at the post 
of duty until the last one fell. Looking 
to God for strength, he said, "Like a sol- 
dier, I will go on if need be alone to the 
end faithful to the work that God has 
called me to do." 




FROM the time Herbert Withey went 
to Africa as a boy of twelve until 
he was a grown man of twenty-four, he 
did not see a railroad train or a loco- 
motive. When finally it was decided that 
the family should return to America for 
a year of rest, he enjoyed the luxury of 
traveling part of the way to the coast by 
train. Some of the black boys walked 
with him the eighty miles down the trail 
to the nearest station. As they heard the 
engine whistle and for the first time lis- 
tened to the chug, chug, chug of the steam, 
they laughed and danced about, saying, 
"It says: 'Count your money! Count your 
money! Pay me well! Pay me well!* 

After his visit to America, Herbert came 
back to the land of the jungle trail, but 



not to his old home. He was sent to 
Quiongua to help start work in a place 
where Nzambi's men had never lived be- 
fore. There the missionaries had pur- 
chased a large piece of land with money 
they had earned through trading, and 
Herbert Withey was sent as first helper 
to Mr. Dodson, whose work it was to 
build up a mission station there. At first 
they lived in the roughest sort of shacks 
of sticks and rushes with nothing about 
them but bushes and grass. There was 
but one white neighbor within fourteen 
miles of them in any direction. 

Yet they were glad that this very spot 
had been chosen for a mission. When the 
day's work was done and they could sit 
before the door of their shack they could 
see on the hills and valleys all about the 
smoke rising from hundreds of grass- 
thatched roofs from the mud huts of the 
simple black folk for whose sake they 
had come. 

In this new station Mr. Dodson and 
Herbert Withey, with the help now and 



then of other missionaries, toiled patiently 
at the hardest kind of labor. They went 
to the forests, chopped down trees, and 
out of logs which they themselves sawed, 
they built houses and made their own 
furniture. The black men from the vil- 
lages of mud huts would pass by and stare 
at the white toilers. "It is a disgrace how 
those Engeleje do the work of slaves," 
they said in disgust, and it was many 
months before anv of them could be hired 


to help. 

In time, however, all this was changed. 
The black men looked up from their dirty 
mud huts, and on the little hill where the 
Engeleje had settled they saw a large 
white-walled house with a red-tiled roof 
higher than any they had ever seen. 'The 
Ingeleje have built one house on top of 
another," they said. Boys began to say to 
their fathers, "Let us go and live on the 
hill with the white men that we too may 
learn to make wonders with our hands." 

So Herbert Withey began a boys' manual 
training school. With the white man to 



teach them these black boys built a home 
for themselves. They went with him for 
weeks at a time to the forests to cut and 
saw lumber. They built a schoolhouse, a 
printing shop, and a pretty white church. 
They put up several bungalows for the 
white men to live in, and they built a neat 
green picket fence about the front yard. 

They planted trees, and in spite of 
the white ants many of these trees grew to 
bear fruit, and year after year brought 
good yields of oranges, limes, guavas, 
mangoes, and custard apples. Banana 
trees and palms also dotted the yard, and 
a large "mungenge" spread its welcome 
shade over the grass. They planted some 
of God's magic seeds, and ere long there 
was a beautiful garden filled with many 
good things for the table. Blue-and-white 
morning glory blossoms covered the rougher 
fences with their daintiness, and green 
vines wound about the pillars of the long 
porch of the two-storied house, and climbed 
over the roofs of the bungalows. It be- 
came a pretty sight, indeed, that delighted 



many a traveler along the winding trail. 
Miles away those white walls and red- 
tiled roofs might be seen peeping out from 
among the green trees. 

Late one afternoon, Senhor Bote (for 
that was the black boys' way of saying 
Mr. Herbert) stood by the open gate in 
the green picket fence. From where he 
stood he could see some of his boys with 
sickles in their hands cutting the grass 
in the yard while others were clearing 
weeds from the road. On the green slopes 
across the valley another boy was watch- 
ing the herd of cattle grazing, while nearer 
by two of the smaller lads were guarding 
the flocks of goats and sheep. 

Stepping over to the saw shed, Senhor 
Bote watched for a while the work of 
two pairs of boys taking turns at running 
a heavy six-foot pit saw that was sawing a 
hardwood log into boards. He looked 
carefully to see if the boys had lined the 
log straight so that the boards when 
sawed would be of the same thickness. 
Then he stepped into the carpenter shop 




to show some big boys there how to put 
together the tables and benches they were 

Then the bell rang for lunch. In the 
afternoon some of the boys were sent to 
hoe sweet potatoes, corn, beans, and squash. 
Senhor Bote walked up the steps into the 
printing shop to see how carefully the boys 
were setting type for the little magazine. 
Looking out of the window of the shop, 
he saw four young women tripping lightly 
by, their brown bodies neatly wrapped in 
blue-and-white striped cloths. He won- 
dered at the skill with which they balanced 
large jars of water on their heads while their 
hands hung freely by their sides. They 
were wives of some of the older boys who 
had married and were living at the mission 
station. The sight of them made Senhor 
Bote hope that the time would soon come 
when they might have a girls' school as well 
as one for the boys. 

Sunday was the best day of all at the 
Quiongua mission. In the morning, even 
before the nine-o'clock bell would ring, 



one company after another would walk in 
through the gate in the green picket 
fence. Most of the men as well as the 
women were dressed in blue-and-white 
''panos." These were long sheets of cloth 
wound round their bodies, tucked tight 
just under their arms or girdled at the 
waist, and hanging loosely to their knees 
or ankles. Many wore in addition some 
kind of a shirt or blouse, and some of the 
women would have light shawls draped 
from their heads or shoulders and pretty 
bright-colored handkerchiefs tied about their 
black, kinky hair. Coats, trousers, and 
hats would usually be found on some few 
men who tried hard to copy the white man. 
These black men, women, and children 
came with smiles on their faces, for they 
liked to come. Some came from the 
clusters of mud huts which the white man 
could see from his doorway. Some came 
from so far away in the bush that they 
had started the day before, resting at a 
half-way place for the night, in order to 
be present in time for church. The women 



came carrying baskets on their heads filled 
with lunches, for they expected to spend 
most of the day with Nzambi's men. The 
white missionary greeted his black friends 
one by one with a cheery "Good morning." 
Some simply returned the hand shake, 
while others carried the white hand to 
their foreheads as a sign of great respect. 

Walking into the little white church, the 
men would sit on one side of the room and 
the women on the other, and often the 
straw mats on the aisle between would be 
completely filled with boys and girls. 

One Sunday morning as he entered the 
little church, a man stepped forward and 
handed to Senhor Bote a string on which 
was hung a lion's tooth. 'Take it, O man 
of Nzambi," he said. 'Tor many moons 
I have worn it about my neck, for I be- 
lieved the words of the witch doctor of 
our village. He said, 'I have prayed into 
this tooth the spirit of the lion. Wear it 
and the strength of the lion will be yours.' 
Now I believe his words no more, for you 
have taught me better. 5 ' Then Senhor 



Bote, taking the string with the lion's 
tooth, dropped it into a basket that stood 
beside him already nearly filled with other 
queer-looking objects. 

A woman stepped forward and handed 
the white man an old piece of deer skin 
hung around with shells. "Take it, O man 
of Nzambi," she said. "For many moons 
it has hung on the wall of my hut. I 
thought it would keep away sickness. 
Now I know it is nothing. Nzambi alone 
can care for us." Then the missionary, 
taking the old piece of deer skin, threw 
it too into the basket. 

Again a black man from far away in 
the bush stepped forward, handing Senhor 
Bote a gnarled knot of wood. "Take it, 
O man of Nzambi," he said. "For many 
moons I have kept this piece of wood hung 
above the door of my hut. I offered it 
food and gifts and prayed to it to protect 
me. Now I know it was foolishness. 
Burn it.' : Then the missionary, taking 
the gnarled piece of wood, threw it too 
into the basket. 



When all were quietly seated, they sang 
heartily the songs of Jesus. Some one 
read a Bible story and black men and 
white men prayed to Nzambi. Then Senhor 
Bote preached. 

When the service was ended, all the 
black folks passed out of the little white 
church, and arranged themselves in a rough 
half circle under the shade of a wide- 
spreading tree. Two men carrying between 
them the basket of queer-looking objects 
laid it on the ground before them. Then, 
making a pile of straws and sticks, they 
dumped the queer-looking objects in a heap 
upon them. A woman, draped in her blue 
and white :< pano,' ! stepped forward and 
stood by the heap. 

"I am the widow of Kafukula, once the 
greatest witch doctor of Quiongoa," she 
cried. "Before Nzambi's men came you 
were all afraid of him. You gave him your 
money and cloth and chickens and goats. 
He often said, 'When I die the earth will 
quake.' But he died and there was no 
earthquake. We know now that he was 



deceived and that he deceived us all. 
In the name of Nzambi, I, his widow, will 
now set fire to these worthless trinkets.' 5 

As the flames shot upward and the 
smoke curled high, these happy black men 
and women sang a song of Jesus. 

Sometimes Senhor Bote would join an- 
other missionary, and with several of their 
schoolboys they would make a journey 
lasting several weeks. Sometimes they 
went on foot, sometimes on bullock back, 
to many clusters of mud huts, now and 
then finding black folk who were already 
trying to follow Jesus, but more often 
telling Nzambi's message of love to those 
to whom it was new. 

On one such journey, with Mr. and Mrs. 
Dodson, they traveled on bicycles, and 
came to the home of Mateus Inglez, one 
of the first black men to follow Jesus. 
With him lived Gaspar, his nephew, who 
had once been one of the mission boys. 
There the home stood on a hill just above 
the Lucala River, a long, low, whitewashed 



mud house, thatched with sticks and straw. 
Stepping inside the door the missionaries 
saw a large, clean, whitewashed room, 
with homemade tables and chairs, and a 
little bamboo book case filled with books. 
On the table were ink bottle, paper and 
pens. On the wall hung pictures and a 
Sunday school wall roll. 

Soon a drove of cattle were driven be- 
fore the door and the white men and lady 
were called. "Choose the ox you wish to 
have killed in honor of your visit," they 
said. The white guests protested because 
such an ado was being made over their 
visit, but Mateus said: "Have you for- 
gotten how Abraham did when the three 
angels visited him?' : What could the 
missionaries say? Like the patriarch of old, 
Mateus and Gaspar treated the white 
teachers to the best they had. 

During their visit the missionaries ate 
their meals from a table spread with a 
cloth. Gaspar served the meals in courses, 
each time removing the plates, knives, and 
forks, returning them quickly, washed and 



ready for their next use. As occasion arose 
Celia, his wife, washed and ironed their 
soiled clothes in a way that could not be 
improved upon. 

On Sunday a deep-sounding eland horn 
was blown. Fifty or more well-dressed men 
and women gathered in the large white- 
washed room. Senhor Bote spoke to them 
of Nzambi, the God of all men, black and 
white, and of what He commands. All 
listened quietly and eagerly. Throughout 
the service one man of importance in the 
region kept his eyes fixed on the speaker's 
face. Afterward he said to Mateus, "I 
never before heard a white man talk 
Kimbundu just as we do." 

The visitors stayed a day or two longer, 
saw the boys' school, and the farm which 
these black farmers were watering by 
means of an irrigating ditch, and they 
listened to the daily morning prayers in 
the school. When the visitors were about 
to say good-by, Mateus insisted on their 
taking with them jerked beef, and a deli- 
cately roasted food, made from manioc root, 






also sugar and coffee, more than they 

"Why not?" Mateus said. "When I 
used to call in the witch doctors, they 
made me pay dear for it, and never did 
me any good. Now you who are the mes- 
sengers of God, who have brought me the 
light and shown me a new life, when you 
come to visit me, is it not truly my duty 
to do my best for you?" 

The missionaries' feet were light, and 
their hearts were glad, as they walked 
down the hill from Mateus' s house. 

"What a dear fellow Mateus is!" said 
Senhor Bote to his white brother. "He 
has read his Bible to good purpose since 
the day when as a coffee trader he stopped 
at our door asking for Nzambi's book.' 1 

"Yes," replied the white brother, "and if 
our mission school can send out such fine 
Christians as Caspar and Celia, all we have 
done has been worth while. " 

At other times when Senhor Bote walked 
through some of the villages of mud and 
grass huts on these journeys for God, 



men sitting on stools in the open door- 
ways would stare at the white man as he 
passed. "How tall he is!" some would 
remark, "but he is not very old. It is 
only a few years since he first came to 
Angola. He w T as one of the children car- 
ried two in a hammock. His whiskers do 
not mean anything. They are nothing but 
grass. ' : 

"Ah," another would say as the smoke 
from his pipe curled lazily upward. "He 
has grown up in our country, and talks 
Kimbundu and Portuguese just as we do. 
They say he has forgotten his own language 
entirely. He is strong too, and is as good 
a walker as the best of us. Has he not 
walked all the long trail from Quiongoa 
this morning? He can work too. He has 
skill in his hands. Have you seen the 
house he has built in Quiongoa? It is set 
up on big posts, and the windows have 
looking-glasses in them." 

Again in another village the talk would 
be in a pitying tone: "My, but he is grow- 
ing old. He will soon be aged. And just 



think, he isn't married. He ought to have 
many children by this time. Did you 
ever see any other kind of a white man 
do like that?" 

Busy as he was with his boys about him, 
the shop, the school, the printing press, 
and the church, Herbert Withey felt very 
much alone. His father and mother, worn 
out by years of hard work in this land of 
palms and heat, had returned to America, 
thus leaving their son alone. Jose cooked 
his meals and helped him to keep his 
house, and very tidy and clean it always 
was. Part of the time there were other 
w r hite friends living in one of the mission 
cottages who were very kind to him. But 
Herbert Withey knew what it meant to 
live a whole year at a time without even 
seeing the face of a white woman. At 
times he felt keenly the loneliness of his 

One day, standing beside his table near 
the open fireplace in the white man's 
room, Antonio Andre, one of his black boys, 



said to him, "Senhor Bote, why don't you 
go somewhere and get a wife? No black 
man lives without a woman. We think it 
takes a woman to make a home. It is 
just the same with you white people too. 
You have a nice house, but you seem some- 
how like a 'jingenji' [a traveler], not like 
a person at home. It is not good for even 
a white man like you to be alone.' 2 

Senhor Bote could not tell Antonio why, 
but his thoughts wandered back many 
years across the wide ocean to the wood- 
shed beside the little white house with 
green shutters. Then he remembered the 
graves of his three sisters. After some time 
he turned to his black friend and said, 
"I am a soldier of Nzambi, Antonio. I 
must be faithful to my Commander." He 
could say no more. 



:< r 1HE mission house at Pungo Andongo 
A must be reroofed," said Senhor Bote 
to his boys one day at Quiongua. "The 
heavy thatch is breaking down the old 
timbers. We must put in new ones made 
of sawed hard lumber, and corrugated iron 
must be used in place of thatch. The 
people who promised to supply the lumber 
have failed us. Let us go and get it our- 
selves. Let us go up the trail into the 
bush beyond the high rocks at Pungo 
Andongo. We'll build ourselves a camp 
there and work until we have cut down 
all the trees we need. Then we will saw 
them into lumber and haul them into the 
mission yard at Pungo Andongo.' 1 

Smiles and shouts of "Good, Senhor 
Bote!" greeted this announcement. The 
thought of lumbering for six weeks in the 



jungle brought no feeling of hardship to 
these plucky black boys. 

So after breakfast, but before daylight, 
the company started up the trail. Matulu, 
Samuel, and Raymundo guided the bul- 
locks and cart loaded with tools. Manuel, 
Kasuua, Jacob, Antonio Andre, Jose, Joao 
Kanjanja, Titumba and all the rest of the 
twenty bovs were with Senhor Bote, each 

I V 

bearing a carrier's load of supplies on his 
shoulder or head. They trudged single-file 
along the crooked path, through jungle 
grass, uphill and down, along the passes be- 
tween the high rocks at Pungo Andongo, and 
beyond. As the sun rose higher in the sky, 
its hot rays beat down upon them. At 
last, weary and hungry, they reached a 
spot near the village of Jimbia where 
Senhor Bote decided they should camp 
under a wide-spreading sycamore tree. 

A camp fire was lighted, the pot of 
"fungi," or manioc mush, was soon boiling, 
and the hungrv travelers ate and rested. 

t? v 

Then a framework of poles and canvas 
was pulled out of the cart and almost as 



if by magic a shelter was built above and 
around three sides of Senhor Bote's cot. 
Each boy spread grass on the ground as a 
sort of mattress for himself, laying a straight 
pole on either side. These he fastened by 
pegs set in the ground, in order to keep 
the grass from being scattered. Over this 
grassy cushion he spread a soft, shiny mat 
made of reeds, and this served him as 
both bed and table. Then close beside 
each of these beds of grass, the boys built 
camp fires to last all through the night. 

When the sun had hidden his face be- 
hind the trees, they sat beside their fires, 
sang songs, repeated Bible verses, and then 
Senhor Bote prayed. In the night as they 
lay on their beds of reeds and grass, they 
were sometimes waked by the doleful 
howling of hyenas, and now and again the 
short sharp bark of a jackal echoed and 
reechoed among the high rocks near by. 
Yet the campers were not afraid so long 
as the fires flared up beside them. 

It was during the latter part of the dry 
season that they lumbered at Jimbia. No 



one had any fear of rain, but a little later 
when the night mists became very heavy, 
the boys felt the need of more shelter. 
So they built wind breaks alongside their 
beds of grass and made booths over their 
heads out of sticks and grass and banana 

When the work of the camp was well 
under way, a daily routine was started. 
Antonio had brought with him a dove in 
a bamboo cage. Before sunrise its gentle 
cooing would waken some of the lighter 
sleepers. Senhor Bote's alarm clock would 
sound a sharp reveille from his camp table 
under the tree. Soon all were up, Jose 
first of all. Stirring up the fire, he would 
put on a kettle of mush and a pot of beans 
which had been cooked the night before. 
When the beans and mush were ready, the 
boys lined up with their plates in their 
hands while Jose served out the portions. 
Thus with their food before them, they 
stood and sang grace. 

After breakfast they divided into gangs, 
one group going to saw down some sturdy 

























tree. Another group rolled to the saw pit 
logs already felled. Two boys sawed the 
logs at the saw pit. One standing on the 
log, the other down in the pit, they pulled 
the long saw back and forth. Another 
gang carried the finished planks to the 
cart, and later a cart load of lumber was 
started down the trail to the mission. All 
the while Senhor Bote was going from 
gang to gang, overseeing the work, planning 
new tasks and stirring the boys to labor 
more heartily, while now and again he 
pulled a saw or swung a pick himself, ready 
to work as hard as any of them. 

For two hours during the glaring heat at 
noon they rested. Senhor Bote gave each 
of the boys an allowance of food and money 
for each week. Grouping themselves in 
messes like soldiers, two or three to a mess, 
they started their own fires and cooked 
their own noon and evening meals. 

At midday women from the near by 
village came carrying on their heads bas- 
kets of sweet potatoes, squash, venison, 
chickens, eggs, and bananas to sell. From 



their weekly allowances the boys would 
buy some of these good things. 

These black women from the village 
had much to say. Some were at first 
afraid to come near. 

"How dared you to build your camp 
under this sacred tree?' : they said. "Have 
you never heard the stories of sickness 
and death which have come to those who 
dared to touch this sacred tree? Here 
lives the 'Kituta,' the god of the woods 
and water springs. Be quick and make 
an offering of bread and sugar at the foot 
of this tree that the 'Kituta' may not be 
angry with you." 

Days passed, however, and no harm came 
to Senhor Bote and his boys. "Never 
mind," the women would say. "It's all 
because Senhor Bote is also a 'Kituta.' His 
magic is more powerful than that of the 
god of the woods and water springs. None 
of you boys dare to shoot a bird that 
settles on the branches of this tree." 

Jose Manico took the dare. "I'll do it 
just to prove that there is no 'Kituta' 



here," he said. So he aimed, fired and the 
bird fell to the ground, but no "Kituta" 
sent evil upon them. 

"Never mind," said the village women 
folk. "You boys wouldn't dare to come 
back here alone and set up camp without 
your white 'Kituta' with you. It is his 
power that saves you from the wrath of the 
god of the woods and water springs." 

Sometimes when a boy heard such words 
as these, the old fear of evil spirits would 
overshadow his heart. Then Senhor Bote 
would say to him: "There may be many 
evil spirits in the world, but I know that 
they never made the trees and rocks and 
springs and fountains. You yourselves say 
so. Nzambi, who made all these things, is 
greater than any 'Kituta,' and Nzambi is 
a God of love. We can trust and serve 

"But you are a good man, 55 answered 
Titumba one day. "You can trust in 
Nzambi and the evil spirits will not harm 
you. But even since I started to be a 
Christian I have not always walked God's 



straight road. Then I have become afraid, 
and have made offerings to the evil spirits, 
and have worn charms to protect me.' : 

"Ah, there is truth in what you say, 
Titumba," answered the white teacher. 
"It is sin that makes Nzambi displeased 
with us and takes us out of his care. But 
we must repent quickly if we have done 
wrong, and put our trust again in Nzambi. 
Then if we are faithful to him, he is well 
able to take care of us.' : 

Lunch eaten, the boys and their leader 
went back to work until sundown. Then 
another picnic meal, and afterward they 
gathered in a circle about the big camp 
fire. Sometimes the boys told stories and 
folk tales of animals and chiefs. Sometimes 
they sang Kimbundu songs and some read 
from the Bible. Then when the day's 
work and play were over, they scampered 
to their booths of grass, sticks and banana 
leaves. Most of the boys before turning 
over on the mats to sleep knelt to pray, 
not to the 'Kituta" of the sycamore tree, 
but to Nzambi, the God of love. Some- 



times they said the prayer, "Now I lay 
me down to sleep/ 3 but you would not 
have known it even though you had heard 
their voices, for this is what they said: 

"Ngeza kia mu lambalala, 
Nga bingi Nzambi ku ngi langa; 
Usuku iu se u ng' ixana 
O mueniu uami hu u tula, 
Nga bingi a ngi beke muene, 
Kua kala atu e angene; 
Mukonda Mon'e kia ngi fuila, 
Nga mesena kiki." 

Six weeks in the bush passed all too 
soon for these plucky black scouts. Then 
after only two weeks of rest, Senhor Bote 
again took his jolly band to lumber in the 
jungle. Part of the way they followed a 
narrow trail. Later they pushed their way, 
cart, bullocks and all, through a trackless 
mass of jungle grass and thorny bushes. 
Finally, they camped alongside a dried-up 
stream near a forest. 

Quickly they made themselves comfort- 
able as before. Senhor Bote's cot was set 
up and the boys made their beds of grass 



on the ground. Some went off for food 
and water, and Jose lit a fire. 

In the evening the air became lively 
with big, fat, flying ants. Some of these 
the boys caught in their hands. Other 
ants having lost their wings (which always 
fall off after flying but once) were crawling 
helplessly on the ground as though hunting 
for their wings. These ants were more 
easily caught. But wings or no wings all 
were fried for supper. 

Just as they had finished this luscious 
meal one of the boys saw a glistening 
reddish-brown streak moving rapidly across 
the clearing from the edge of the bush. 
Like a jack-in-the-box he jumped from his 
mat, and shouted, The driver ants! The 
driver ants!" Big red fellows they were, 
seemingly millions of them, and some of 
them four times as big as the ordinary 
wood ants. Each driver had a pair of 
powerful pincers on his head. Marching 
along like an army on a raid, they came, 
ready to swarm over and bite any living 
thing in their path. 



Every boy, large and small, was on 
his feet in an instant. They took red hot 
coals from the fires, and hastily laid a line 
of these across the path of the ants. Then 
they made a circle of coals and hot ashes 
around their own grass couches and around 
Senhor Bote's cot. They worked more 
briskly than they had worked at any time 
during the day, for every boy well knew 
the sharp sting of a fighting driver ant. 
'We want to sleep to-night," they said; 
and it was certain that no one would get 
even a cat nap unless they stopped and 
turned aside this terrible army of little 
red beasts. 

It was during the rainy season that 
these black scouts and their leader set up 
their camp. "It may rain every day while 
we are here," said Senhor Bote the next 
morning. 'We must build ourselves better 
shelters." So they gathered poles and 
heavy sticks and thinner sticks or wattles, 
as they are called, which could be easily 
bent, and grass in abundance for the 



Not many days later they had a neat 
rectangular water-proof hut ready, with 
walls and roof thatched with grass, and 
the floor covered with clean white sand. 
Altogether it was large enough for a cot, 
a table, a cupboard, a chair or two, their 
tools, and the store of food supplies for all 
the camp. Near by stood three neatly 
thatched smaller beehive-shaped huts for 
the bovs. Directly in front of the white 


man's hut a saw pit was dug. 

All went well until one day Senhor Bote 
was taken sick with chills and fever. For 
the first day while lying on his bed he 
tried to tell his boys how to keep at the 
sawing, but only for a little time could 
he do this. Dav after dav these loval 

V t/ t, 

black boys tried to nurse their big white 
brother back to health. They kept a 
pitcher of water continually by his bed. 
They brought a hot stone to warm him 
when in a chill. They tiptoed about the 
hut, and spoke in quiet tones to one an- 
other. Each morning they stepped to the 
door of his hut hoping to find him better, 



but each morning they turned away with 
sad and heavy hearts, for they knew that 
their Senhor Bote was very ill. Even 
Matulu could no longer find things to joke 
about, as he w r as always doing, and little 
deaf Kasuua lost the smile that usually 
came so easily to his face. 

One evening, after a solemn conference 
together, they decided to send Joao Xashi 
to Pungo Andongo to ask Mr. Dodson to 
come to help them. He came at once and 
stayed by the sick-bed day and night. 
Still their beloved leader lay on his cot 
burning with fever, unable to eat, or even 
to think. A week passed and the sick man 
seemed to grow better. Indeed, he thought 
the fever had gone. He dressed and sat 
in a steamer chair. To the sorrow 7 of all, 
however, he found that the fever still 
clung to him and that day after day he 
grew 7 no stronger. He was obliged to 
return to his cot. Another of his white 
brothers came to relieve Mr. Dodson. 
How Senhor Bote enjoyed hearing his new 
nurse play on a guitar in the doorway of 



the hut, and tell stories of his home folks 
across the wide ocean. 

Mendonca, one of the older boys left 
behind hi Quiongua, when he heard that 
Senhor Bote was dying in the bush, hastened 
to the camp. When he first looked on the 
,pale thin face of his white teacher, and 
saw the weak body lying on the cot so 
still, Mendonca fell on his knees at the 
tbedside and burst into tears. As soon as 
he was able to speak, after his sobs, he 
began to pray aloud. "O God, bring back 
our dear Senhor Bote from his grave and 
spare him to us yet a while longer, if it 
is thy will." 

The white brothers and all the black 
boys realized that Mendonca's prayers 
could not be answered if Senhor Bote re- 
mained in the jungle camp. So in a "tipoia" 
the boys carried their teacher back over 
the narrow trail and even through the 
trackless grass and thorn bushes to 

Back again in his own clean house Mr. 
Withey rested. For five weeks the fever 



clung continually. The other missionaries 
nursed him tenderly. At last he could 
dress and sit again in the steamer chair 
out on the big porch, where he could watch 
the purple hills and the green meadows. 
Yet his wasted face was thin and pale, 
and one could see all the bones in his hands. 
When he tried to walk his body trembled 
all over from weakness. 

"He must be taken out of the hot climate 
of Angola. Only in America will he be 
able to grow strong again,' 2 said his white 

So it was not many weeks later that 
Herbert Withey sailed back across the 
wide ocean to the shores of America, 
there to rest and grow strong so that once 
more he might return to Africa to live 
again for the black boys in Angola. 




IN the city of Los Angeles, California, 
Mr. Withey was calling one evening in 
the home of Mrs. Bassett. On the floor 
lay a Persian rug and on the table were 
pictures of Persian men and women and of 
Persian homes, for Mr. Bassett had been 
a missionary among the Persians. Two 
of the daughters were talking to the 
interesting missionary from Africa, when the 
youngest daughter entered the room. For 
a moment she waited for someone to 
introduce the visitor to her; but the sisters, 
busy in conversation, forgot for the time 
that he had not yet met their younger 
sister. So she gracefully stepped toward 
Mr. Withey, put out her hand and said, 
"I am Ruth." Something about her 
perhaps it was her pure blue eyes, per- 
haps it was her gentle voice he knew not 



what but something about her made the 
man from Africa like her. 

During the winter Mr. Withey visited 
many times in the Bassett home. Each 
time he talked with Ruth he liked her 
better. As he walked back and forth from 
her home, his thoughts wandered back far 
away to the time when as a boy he stood 
watching his father in the woodshed back 
of the little white house with green shutters. 
Could it be that Ruth was the one for 
whom he had been praying all these years? 
While he had sat at his bench in the vil- 
lage schoolhouse in New England, had she 
been playing with blocks in a missionary's 
home on the other side of the world in 
Persia? It seemed more wonderful than a 
fairy tale. Then the gleam would leave 
his eye and the smile would flee from his 
face as he remembered the three graves 
of his sisters far across the gray ocean. 
Was it right for him to ask any woman 
to return with him to that land of sick- 
ness? Was it for him to know the joy of 
love? Was it for him to have a real 



home? He could not answer. He could 
only pray. 

Still his love for Ruth tugged hard at 
his heart. Finally at home on his knees 
before the Lord he decided, "I will tell her 
of my love, and see if she returns it. Then 
we will ask God to show us the next thing 
to do." So, somewhat timidly, one after- 
noon as he walked with her in a park, he 
told her in few and simple words what was 
in his heart. "I love you." "I know it well,' 3 
she answered, "and I have long thought I 
would like to be a missionary.' 1 Little 
more was said at the time. Full hearts 
speak in other ways than words. 

The very serious hindrance to this dream 
of love did not seem to take hold of Ruth 
until she talked the matter over with her 
mother and with her sisters. "You are 
but a girl," they said. "You are letting a 
foolish love take away your good sense. 
You are far too delicate to stand such a 
climate as that of Angola. You know very 
well that no doctor would consent to your 



So a few days later, she called at a 
doctor's office. The family had insisted. 
"I wish you to examine me carefully, 53 she 
said, "and to find out if there is anything 
the matter with me, and to tell me what 
I can do to grow strong.'' She told the 
doctor of her lover and of her wish to go 
with him to Angola. After examining her 
thoroughly, the doctor tried to tell her the 
truth about her health. 

"One thing I am sure of, Miss Basse tt," 
he said as she left the office. "You should 
never think of trying to live in such a 
climate as that of Angola. It must never 

A very disappointed Ruth walked home 
that day. 

Mr. Withey would not yet give up. He 
himself went to the doctor's office to talk 
matters over. The doctor, however, would 
not change his word. "You should either 
give up all thought of Miss Bassett as your 
wife or you should give up your plan to 
return to Angola," he said emphatically. 
"Settle in this country and all will be 

199 ' 


well." A heavy-hearted lover and mission- 
ary walked back to his home that day. 

Friends, hearing the story, came quietly 
one at a time to Mr. Withey and said: 
"It would be cruel for you to take such a 
delicate young girl back to Africa with 
you. If you really love her you should 
settle in this country. You have lived 
long enough for the black folk in Africa. 
Why not give the rest of your life to the 
translating of books into the Kimbundu 

But a soldier's answer was always ready. 
"My call to be a missionary came to me 
when I was a boy. The years that have 
passed since have only deepened my con- 
viction that my life has been ordered by 
God. I feel I would be false to my God 
and to my calling if I should give up my 
work in Angola. I would despise myself 
for it and I am sure I would be of no use 
or blessing to anyone else." 

During the weeks and months which 
followed, no one, not even Ruth, knew 
what it cost him to be true. The disap- 



pointment seemed harder to bear than all 
he had suffered through the twenty years 
he had lived in the land of the "white 
man's grave." He spent hours in prayer. 
He knew the loneliness of sleepless nights. 
He felt the small comfort of tears. Yet 
like a soldier he kept faithful to his Com- 

The time came for him to return to his 
post in the land of the black man. At 
the appointed hour he was back again in 
the white- walled house with the red- tiled 
roof. Jose cooked his meals, but there 
was no Ruth to sit beside him at the 
table. He could only take her photo out 
of his pocket and lean it against a cup 
to dream over. Each morning as he 
dressed and asked for strength that he 
might serve patiently the ignorant black 
folk about him, a framed motto seemed to 
watch him from the wall a motto Ruth 
had embroidered for him with her own 
hands. These were the words: "That he 
may please Him who hath called him to 
be a soldier. >: 



The photo he always kept in his vest 
pocket next his heart. Even when he 
walked through the jungle paths from one 
group of straw huts to another in his 
journeys for God, the photo went with 
him in his vest pocket. One afternoon 
on such a journey, while the big red sun 
was still touching with gold the tops of 
the banana trees, Senhor Bote was stand- 
ing on the beaten ground in the center 
of a group of grass huts, telling naked 
black men and women about Nzambi and 
of what Jesus had come to do for them. 

Almost everyone in the village had 
come to listen to the white man's stories, 
except "Crime of Death," their big warrior 
chief. Sitting on a stool in the door of 
his hut, he called a slave to his side and 
said, "Give Senhor Bote this message from 
your chief. Tell him we welcome him to 
our village. Bid him stay with us through 
the night, and again when the sun rises 
let him tell us more of the white man's 
magic. ' : 

Gladly the missionary accepted the chief's 

202 . 





yours she would die. Because of my love 
for her, I will not marry another. 5 ' As he 
spoke he took out of his vest pocket the 
photo and held it out for "Crime of Death" 
to see. For many minutes those hard 
black eyes gazed at the likeness of the 
sweet, white face. Then without a word, 
he arose from his stool and stalked out 
of the hut. 

The next morning two of the chief's 
wives, coarse and dirty, clothed partly in 
skins and partly in scraps of black greasy 
cloth, came bashfully to the white man 
as he stood before the door of his hut. 
'We wish to see that picture/' they said, 
timidly, 'that picture you carry in your 
pocket of the woman you love that woman 
for whose sake you will not marry another.' 1 

Again Senhor Bote took the photo from 
his vest pocket. The two curious pairs 
of eyes looked at it long. "Ah!" they said, 
with a long drawn breath, "how beau- 
tiful!' 5 Then they lifted their black eyes 
toward his, and the look in them told 
him, 'We understand and are sorry.' 3 



They repeated the words of their chief: 
"The woman you love and for whose sake 
you will not marry another.' 2 Tears came 
to the white man's eyes as he bade them 
good-by. He thought to himself, "Black 
skin or white skin, dirt or no dirt, men 
and [women the world over understand 

Across the blue waters in the Bassett 
home in Southern California, Ruth did not 
give up her lover or the hope that some 
day she might live with him in Africa. 
Each day after school she took a long walk 
out in the fresh air. Each morning and 
night in her own room she took gymnastic 
exercises. She studied books to find out 
what it was best for her to eat. Slowly, 
day by day, she began to feel stronger. 
Her cheeks became rosier, and she added 
to her weight. Months passed, and even 
a year, and then yet more months. She 
continued faithfully to exercise for the love 
of Herbert and for the love of God. 

Finally a rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed young 
woman waited again in the doctor's office. 



"I am Miss Ruth Bassett," she said as 
the doctor, with a somewhat puzzled look, 
shook her hand. 

"You are looking much better than when 
I saw you last," he replied. Again he 
examined her carefully, listening to her 
heart and lungs. At last he sat back in 
his chair and exclaimed, "What have you 
been doing, Miss Bassett? You are not 
the same woman I examined a year and 
a half ago. You are well." 

With a heart bounding with joy, she 
left the doctor's office. Back again at her 
desk in her bungalow home, she wrote a 
letter of gladness to her lover. 

Speeding across the continent and over 
the wide waters, the letter found him with 
his black boys again lumbering in the 
woods on the banks of the Koanza River. 
In the dusk of evening, sitting on a mat 
near the camp fire, he was singing softly 
to himself the words of one of his favorite 

"My Lord, how full of sweet content, 
I pass my years of banishment. ' 



Presently his eyes caught sight of a 
brown body walking slowly up the trail. 
He jumped to his feet and ran down the 
path to meet the lad, for he knew well 
that it was mail that he brought. By 
the dim light of the lantern that stood on 
the crude table, he read the well-known, 
beautiful handwriting. Over and over he 
repeated the words. He could scarce be- 
lieve that his eyes were seeing right. 
"Every hindrance has been removed. I 
am well. I expect to sail in July." He 
wanted to dance. He wanted to shout. 
He wanted to sing. 

In the morning he told his boys of his 
glad surprise. Among themselves they had 
often talked of Senhor Bote's loneliness. 
Now they were wild with excitement. 
They hurried to finish the sawing. 

Not many weeks after this at night- 
fall, a rowboat was moving out from the 
shore of Angola to a big ocean steamer 
that lay at anchor not far away. Soon a 
tall man was climbing a ladder up the side 
of the ship. Setting foot on the deck, he 



peeped in through an open port hole. He 
saw before him, bent over a table at the 
farther side of the brightly lighted dining 
room, the fair-haired head he longed to 
see. Stepping inside the hallway, he stood 
by an open door leading into the dining 
room where he could be seen when those 
blue eyes lifted. The woman next to the 
fair-haired one saw him first. 'There is 
Mr. Withey," she exclaimed. 

Ruth startled, dropped what she was 
eating to her plate. Her napkin fell to 
the floor as she rose quickly. Forgetting 
all the others in the room, she rushed out 
of the door and into her lover's arms. 

As they sat in the moonlight on the 
upper deck, they talked of all that had 
happened during the two years and more 
since they had parted. "I have come to 
stay wherever you stay," said Ruth, "what- 
ever may be the result.' 1 

During the years that have passed since 
then, like the Ruth of old, she has been 
true to her promise. Life brings glad sur- 
prises, however, as well as sad ones. For 



Ruth, Angola has not been a land of 
sickness. With her coming, the simple 
home inside the white walled house with 
the red-tiled roof seemed to change as a 
magnolia tree changes when it bursts into 
bloom. The pictures on the wall looked 
more at home. Comfortable-looking cush- 
ions found their way to the couch. Pretty 
curtains hung in the windows, and, most of 
all, her presence turned a house into a home. 

She became very fond of the place with 
its morning-glories and its roses. Many 
new flowers and vegetables she added to 
the garden. She came to love the simple 
black women as her sisters, and they in turn 
would do anything for their Senhora Bote. 

As the years have passed Senhor Bote 
has spent more and more of his time in 
the translating of the Bible and other 
good books into the Kimbundu language. 
Often after he has sat for hours studying at 
his desk behind closed doors, two little blue- 
eyed girls will knock at his door. Running to 
his chair and up into his lap, they will say, 
"Father, we think it is time for you to play." 





(For stories and teacher's manual) 


Barbeau, C. M. Huron and Wyandot Mythology. Can- 
ada Geological Survey. Memoir 80. Anthropological 
Series 11. 1915. 

Baughman, A. J. Past and Present of Wyandot County, 
Ohio. 1913. Two vols. (Vol. I.) 

Beach, W T . W. The Indian Miscellany. 1877. 

Blair, E. H. Indian tribes of the Upper Mississippi Valley 
and Region of the Great Lakes. 1911-1912. Two vols. 
(Vol. I.) 

Connelley, W. E. Wyandot Folklore. 1900. 

Elliott, Charles. Indian Missionary Reminiscences. 1837. 

Finley, J. B. Autobiography. 1853. 

History of the Wyandot Mission. 1840. 

Life Among the Indians. 1857. 

Sketches of Western Methodism. 1857. 

Journal of the Anthropological Institute. Vol. XXVI. 

Love, N. B. C. John Stewart, Missionary to the Wyandots. 

McKendree, William. Letter. (In the Methodist Maga- 
zine, October, 1823.) 

Mitchell, Joseph. The Missionary Pioneer, John Stewart. 

Myrtle, Minnie (pseud, for A. C. Johnson). The Iro- 
quois. 1855. 

Parker, A. C. The Code of Handsome Lake. (New 
York State Museum Bulletin, No. 163.) 

(New York State Museum Bulletin. No. 144.) 



The author acknowledges with gratitude the personal help 
of Dr. Pliney E. Goddard of the Anthropological De- 
partment of the American Museum of Natural History. 

Brockman. F. S. A Daughter of Confucius. (In The 

Christian Advocate, October, 1914.) 
Burton, Margaret. Notable Women of Modern China. 


Central China Record. 1901, 1904. 
China Medical Committee of the Rockefeller Foundation. 

Medicine in China. 

China Medical Journal. December, 1896. 
Gamewell, M. N. A Girl's Beautiful Thought (leaflet). 
Heathen Woman's Friend (later called Woman's Mission- 
ary Friend). 1870-1917. (See especially March, 1911, 

for the story of Happy Pearl.) 

Kelley, W. V. A Salute to the Valiant. (In the Method- 
ist Review, September-October, November-December, 

Macgowan, John. How England Saved China. (See 

especially Chapter I for story of foot-binding.) 
Methodist Episcopal Church. Reports of the Central 

China Woman's Conference. 1906, 1910. 1912, 1913. 

Perkins, E. C. Christmas in China. 1914. 

Glimpses of the Heart of China. 1911. 

Woman's Work in the Far East. November, 1892; August, 

1894; November, 1896. 
This bibliography was supplemented by letters from Dr. 

Mary Stone and Miss Jennie Hughes, and by personal 

interviews with Miss Phoebe Stone, the sister of Dr. 

Mary Stone. Dr. E. C. Perkins, and other missionaries 

from China. 




African News. 1889-1891. 

Christian Witness and Advocate of Bible Holiness. Jan- 
uary 7, 1886. 

Illustrated Africa. December, 1894. 

Taylor, William. Christian Adventures in South Africa. 

Flaming Torch in Darkest Africa. 1898. 

The Story of My Life. 1895. 

Withey, H. C. Personal Diaries and Letters (unpub- 

The author acknowledges with gratitude the invaluable 
services of the Missionary Research Library, New York